


Chasing Moonbeams.

by pekeleke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied Bottom Severus, M/M, Oblivious Severus, Pining Harry, Pre-Slash to Slash, Slow Burn, original child character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 82,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pekeleke/pseuds/pekeleke
Summary: “Really?” Harry beams, green eyes wide and full of wonder. “You’re going to let me snog you to my heart’s content?”“Of course not.” Severus replies contrarily, curling elegant digits around the brat’s neck and tugging him down low enough for a quick and dirty kiss before the Savior has a chance to protest. “I’m going to let you snog me tomyheart’s content, Potter.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-chapter work. It’s already written in its entirety, all 35 chapters of it. I will post one a day until all of them have been uploaded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Someone is impersonating me and uploaded this story, among others, to Goodreads. If that person is you, please, cease. Had I wanted my stories published elsewhere I would have put them there myself.**

**Title:** **Chasing** **Moonbeams.**  
**Author:** pekeleke  
**Pairing(s):** Severus Snape/Harry Potter  
**Rating:** NC-17, eventually.  
**Length:** 82K+  
**Warnings:** Extremely Slow burn. Pre-slash to slash. Enemies to friends to lovers. Pinning!Harry. Oblivious!Severus. Implied Bottom!Severus. EWE.  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own these characters. I make no profit from writing fanfiction.

. 

**Chasing Moonbeams.**

_We are all wanderers of this Earth,_  
_all of us chasing moonbeams,_  
_our hearts are full of wonder,_  
_and our hearts are deep with dreams._

_Gypsy proverb._

**Chapter 1.**

The first time Harry Potter beams at him sunnily and wishes him a very loud, very obnoxious, “Top o’ the morning to ya,’ Master Snape!” Severus realizes two things at once: Potter is spending far too much of his free time around that shameless Irish reprobate, Seamus Finnigan, and he -Potter that is, not Finnigan- has finally come up with the requisite Gryffindor plot to get under Severus’s skin. Both conclusions are exquisitely logical and perfectly justifiable, in Severus’s humble opinion. That ridiculous ‘top o’ the morning’ nonsense is the sort of crime against the Queen’s English that only the Irish would dare to commit. Moreover, even the most antisocial wizards, the ones who pride themselves on having spent the last twenty years or so cowering under a rock in some unpronounceable valley up in the Himalayan mountains, are aware that Severus Tobias Snape and Harry Bloody Potter have never seen eye to eye.

It’s no wonder then that Severus finds it deeply suspicious when he opens his kitchen’s window for that morning’s Prophet owl and is confronted with Potter’s ridiculous grin flashing unexpectedly manly dimples at him above the small hedge that surrounds his cozy cottage. Potter’s even more ridiculous greeting floats in the gentle morning breeze towards his astonished ears. To his credit, Severus neither flinches nor hexes the brat even more stupid than he currently is as soon as The Great Monday Morning Oddness starts. He grabs his copy of the Prophet from its hovering carrier, blinks in the direction of Potter’s pestiferous little grin with arrant disinterest, slams his windowpane closed in both bird and man’s faces, and uses his wand to cast a quick Finite at the seemingly stunned figure of the Heroic Brat Who Lived To Annoy Him that he can still see through the glass —just in case some treacherous fiend has managed to land an underhanded Congenial Charm on Potter while the idiot wasn’t looking.—

Potter squeaks like a girl the moment Severus’s magic washes over him, but he casts neither furiously angry hex nor grateful charm back. He stands there, staring moronically at Severus through the clear windowpane, for about five minutes straight and then leaves with a forlorn little shake of his head, looking for all intents and purposes like the most disappointed lion that ever ‘lioned’ on a perfectly unremarkable Monday morning around Severus’s carefully tended hedge for no good reason whatsoever. Severus shakes his head too and flicks his wand towards the kettle. Tea. He needs tea. And toast. And an hour or two reading his paper in peace.

It doesn’t work though. For the first time since the end of the war, Severus’s precious routine fails to engulf him in its soothing waters. It fails to allow him to drift into a world of his own that nobody else gets to intrude on unless expressly invited by him. Severus has never invited Potter to smile at him and ruin his morning via unwelcome intrusion into his thoughts. It’s incredibly rude of the ex-Gryffindor to have done so, and Severus steams in his frustration while pacing his living room after lunch. He growls unhappily at his bookcases because it galls him to acknowledge that he’s unable to settle into any given activity for longer than ten minutes due to his inability to make sense of the bloody brat’s actions.

Potter has, unsurprisingly, followed in his irksome father’s footsteps, and joined the Auror Corps after graduating from Hogwarts. Severus himself never returned to the school, but Minerva keeps him apprised of what goes on up in Scotland during their standing Firewhiskey Fridays. Severus is well aware that Potter’s Eighth year was boring enough to allow the Savior enough time to study. Potter graduated with more N.E.W.T.s than Severus ever thought he’d earn and then proceeded to lose what little respect his academic accomplishments managed to inspire in Severus by deciding to waste all that potential on the brainless work of a junior Auror's beat.

The idiots running the Ministry these days have Harry Potter, Savior Of The Wizarding World, Defeater Of The Dark Lord, Gringott’s Robber Extraordinaire, Rider Of Dragons, and Ancient Basilisk Slayer, patrolling perfectly respectful tree-lined neighborhoods in the hope that nothing untoward will happen to the idiot from here until he reaches retirement age, by the looks of it. As if anyone or anything would dare to damage Potter. The brat is obviously indestructible. He survived the killing curse twice, for Salazar’s sake.

Nobody had been more shocked than Severus when he’d realized they’d assigned Potter to patrol his perfectly orderly neighborhood. Nothing ever happens around here. It’s all sunny little wizards and witches zipping around in their toy brooms and fluffy, if witless, crups tangling themselves around everybody’s feet sprinkled with cheerfully waving, fruit-pie sharing, honestly respectful adult members of the public going about the business of living their idyllic little lives in peaceful harmony from sunup to sundown.  
  
Severus had been utterly revolted by the place’s sugary sweet air of suburbian perfection when he’d first clapped eyes upon it. However, he’d fallen in love at first sight with the rambling cottage that stood, drooping with age, decades-old neglect, and the delicate weight of about a dozen tangled climbing roses clinging valiantly to its façade, at the end of the street. Severus rarely allows himself to fall in love but, every time he does, he doesn't hesitate to embrace the madness of his feelings and follow their lead wherever they take him. He’d bought the place and moved in within two weeks of having been granted his freedom by the Wizengamot, and now lives in a perfect house that’s inconveniently located on a sunny, smiley, little piece of hell that most of his Slytherin acquaintances and ex-students refuse to visit on principle. A sunny, smiley, little piece of hell patrolled on the daily by Harry Bloody Potter himself.

Severus is probably the only neighbor in the entire street who has managed to ignore the Savior among them for the two years plus that the brat has spent strutting up and down their quaint cobbled stones to ‘guarantee their safety.’ Severus doesn’t need anyone to guarantee his safety, but he can see why the rest of his irritatingly cheerful and overly polite neighbors might. He hasn’t put too much effort into making it clear to the Savior that they are most certainly NOT TALKING TO EACH OTHER. In all fairness, Severus had assumed that point was written on stone and is now more than a little pissed off at the oblivious, idiotic Gryffindor for failing to realize such simple universal truth and all the not-so-subtle behavioral cues associated with it.

Severus is usually safely ensconced inside his cottage while Potter does his ‘rounds.' They consist mostly of Potter ambling lazily down the lane with that syrupy smile of his while randomly helping old ladies do things they’re perfectly capable of doing on their own when he’s not around, patting children's heads, signing autographs for besotted sycophants, and offering unsolicited advice to equally sunny people who return his syrupy smiles. Severus has failed to open his door the last six times Potter has bothered to knock on it -the short list of those occasions includes last Christmas day and, surprisingly, Severus’s birthday,- but he’d sent a specialized healing potion by owl, instead of delivering it in person, the only time the Savior was injured in the line of duty via the bite of little Brady Bibgsby’s escaped Madagascar Rattle-Lizard. Severus has also rejected -with no politeness whatsoever- the somewhat unexpected invitation to speak alongside Potter at every annual ball the Ministry has held to commemorate the Battle Of Hogwarts. On top of all that, Severus hasn’t said a single word to Potter since his trial. Now that he thinks about it, Severus is pretty confident he hasn’t said a word to Potter since the shack. His vocal cords hadn’t yet recovered enough to allow him speech at the time of his trial, so he must have thanked Potter for his favorable testimony via standard Thought To Speech Spell.

All of those things make the strangeness of the morning all the more— well, strange. Maybe Potter had been under the effect of a Congenial Charm after all. Perhaps the brat is really so dumb that almost seven years of complete silence, two and a half of which include a 100% dose of studious indifference towards the Auror on Severus’ part, haven’t been enough to drive home the idea that fighting on the same side of the war doesn’t make them friends. Maybe it’s time for Severus to put some effort into making sure that Potter understands his position on the matter. ‘Hmm,’ he muses and stops his infernal pacing to approach his third tallest bookshelf. Perusing the titles held within is the work of five minutes. Severus slides out his tome on Rare Brews For The Green-thumbed Englishman, cracks it open to examine the index, and flashes the satisfied smirk common to every Slytherin plotter as he finally finds something useful to do with the rest of his day. He must brew Liftblast’s Shrub Nutrition Solution at once. He will coax his hedge into growing at least a foot taller overnight.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**  
Chapter 2**

The next four days are gloriously Potter-free, which doesn’t excuse the ridiculous decision on Severus’s part that leads directly to his second, third, and every other encounter with The Strangeness. Severus is an idiot. He knows this about his own nature already and generally despises any outsiders who attempt to drive the point home unless they’d been invited to do so by him over a bottle of Firewhiskey, which pretty much means the only person allowed to call him an idiot to his face is Minerva McGonagall. 

The biggest culprit for Severus’s idiocy is that awful weakness that sometimes overcomes him when it comes to a few -very few indeed- others. Severus knows himself to be something of a cold fish. He enjoys being a cold fish. It keeps his emotions tangle and hurt-free, which is a blessing when you’re in possession of a heart as dumb and unlucky as his.

However, now and then he encounters an individual he can’t be cold towards, a person that moves him, someone who matters to him so much that they acquire the power to unleash his weakness. Severus would do anything for every one of those individuals, few as they are. He’d go to any lengths to help them, to protect them and ensure their happiness and well-being, even if they never return the favor or bring themselves to regard him with equal depth of feeling. That is the shameful nature of Severus’s idiocy and, since he’s learned the hard way that there is no cure for the bloody thing, he bears the weight of its unreasonable demands if not gracefully, at least pragmatically.

Severus doesn’t usually like children. Finds most of them utterly repellent little pests he strives to avoid at all costs. However, every decade or so a little tyke comes along, catches his eye, and earns enough of his begrudging respect to turn him into putty. These days, Severus happens to enjoy the company of skinny little Nathaniel Nothbury. The boy is bright and shy; kinder than he ought to be, too adventurous for his own good, and an absolute menace with a slingshot and one of those Wheezes Glitter Them All pellets.

Severus is in his front garden, admiring the new height of his much lusher hedge and basking in the weak heat of the sunny early spring morning when he hears the first signs of a growing commotion outside his cottage. Severus’s property is located at the very end of his street and backs directly into a small woodland so overrun with Trooping Fairies that not even earnest mushroom hunters approach it anymore. Nobody comes this far down the lane unless they’re coming to visit him. Potter is the only person who roams about regularly due to his patrolling, but Potter’s already come and gone this morning, and Severus doesn’t expect him back until early evening. He’s already half decided that if whoever is out there is dumb enough to try their luck with the fairies then they’re welcome to whatever miserable fate awaits them when the high-pitched cry of a small child in pain reaches his ears. The fact that he recognizes the timbre of little Nathaniel Nothbury’s voice at once has him Apparating outside with his next blink.

Severus materializes directly into chaos. Fairies. There are fairies everywhere. Also, these are very pissed off, very Wheezes Glitter Them All covered fairies who seem understandably determined to punish the very obvious, very frightened, mischievous architect of their current sparkly orange complexion. Severus doesn’t like fairies. They’re obnoxious, malicious little buggers who find joy in humiliating the weak and causing harm to the naive. He especially dislikes fairies who thoughtlessly hurt children. The fact that the endangered child in question happens to be one of the very few people who has managed to unleash Severus’s pesky weakness means he’s got no option but to commit to getting himself soundly trashed by a furious mob of glittering orange fairies just to save the little brat’s neck.

“What is going on here?” Severus thunders with as much displeasure as he can muster, which is plenty since he’s rather busy adding a painful reacquainting with a dose of Skele-Gro to his evening plans.

The fairies’s angry fluttering slows down ominously. They seem understandably shocked that a human has dared to interrupt their bullish heckling, and Severus tries his best not to show fear when their collectively malevolent gaze settles upon him. “We owe you no explanation, wizard.” 

“I think you do.” Severus tells their belligerent leader calmly, “I live in this cottage here, and you’re ruining my peaceful morning with your screaming. If I, as a wizard, must abide by your desire that I respect the tranquility of your woodland lair or face the consequences, it’s only fair you do the same when you’re, literally, in my doorstep.”

“The wizardling hexed us. He must be punished.”

“The wizardling isn’t old enough to know any hexes. He doesn’t have enough magical power to cast one, either. I should know. I was a professor at Hogwarts for sixteen years.”

The leader’s temper begins to fray. Fairies have no care for patience. “How is it we look like this, then? We’ve turned orange. We shine. He’s done something to us, wizard!” 

“He was playing with a toy that bathes everything it touches in colored glitter. He must have set it off near your nest accidentally. He’s little, and your skills at blending large nests into their woodland surroundings are unparalleled. If a fully trained wizard can’t spot one, what are the chances that a child playing with a favorite toy would?”

“He disturbed us. He painted us with his disgusting toy. He must pay.”

Severus takes one look at the apoplectic face of the fairy leader and edges closer to Nathaniel. Reasoning with spiteful feral creatures rarely works, but he had to give it a try, “If you plan to harm this lad you’ll have to go through me.” 

“You think we won’t, wizard? You think we fear you?” The fairy leader sneers, tiny face alive with a gleeful viciousness that instantly sparks a frenzied hunger for bloody retribution across the ranks of his cohorts.

Severus doesn’t answer. He doesn’t wait for the little beasts to make the first move in their upcoming tussle either. He Stuns the lot of them with his next breath and immediately layers the strongest Immobulus and Incarcerous he can produce atop the Stunner. Severus is aware that casting over so many targets at once has weakened his spell-work. He’s also conscious that the fairies’ magic is stronger than his. The nasty buggers won’t be down for long. Also, they’ll be livid when they come to, but this respite is all he wants. It’s the only chance he’ll get to give the one instruction that’ll make the brutal beating he’s about to endure worth it. He kneels in front of Nathaniel, brings the boy to his feet as calmly as he can and orders: “Run, Nathaniel. Do you understand me? You’ve got to run home as fast as you can and hide. Make sure you close the door behind you. Tell your grandma to put her wards up, and don’t leave the place until tomorrow morning.”

The boy looks at him with wide, terrified eyes and, to his credit, opens his mouth to protest some point or other of Severus’s hastily hatched plan. Severus has no time to indulge him. He can feel how fast his spell-work is unraveling. If Nathaniel doesn’t leave this instant, he won’t make it home at all. “Don’t argue with me, brat. I’m not in the mood for your nonsense. Go. Right now. GO!”

Nathaniel whimpers with fright and launches himself up the lane in instinctive response to Severus’s displeased roar. He’s dammed fast on his feet and, as his tiny frame finally turns the corner and ventures out of sight, Severus sincerely hopes the boy also proves to be a sensible little soldier. He needs Nathaniel to obey. That’s the only thing that’ll keep him safe now. 

“YOU DARE HARM US, WIZARD?” The fairy leader bellows as Severus turns to face him, shaking off the weakening remains of the spells that were keeping him at bay. Severus eyes the straightening figures that have begun to surround him and wishes that the simple act of Apparating away from them, or Depulso-ing the lot to the dirtiest pit of hell, worked against fairies. It doesn’t. The nasty buggers are impervious to displacement magic and make anyone within their sight impervious to it too. Severus’s only recourse to safety lies in his ability to duck their hexes long enough to dive past the protection of the wards surrounding his cottage, but there’s currently a damned wall of considerably pissed off Fae fluttering between himself and his overly lush hedge.

Like elf magic, fairy magic is instinctual, rather potent, and next to impossible to counter. Severus feels the very air shake with gathering power as his opponents fly closer. He growls loudly and feints a step forward only to cast a non-verbal Disillusionment Charm over himself and swing left instead. The fairies howl in outrage; their power-drawing falters as they buzz around with ever louder agitation trying to pinpoint his location. Severus knows the distraction won’t last. Fairies can sense human magic if they put their minds to it, but they’re very slow at it.

Despite the increasingly angry disarray with which they’re flying, the fairies stubbornly guard the entrance to his house, so Severus’s hope of using his little trick to make a run for his front door dies a rather swift death. He still darts past the zipping winged beasts in that direction, because he’s got nothing to lose, and every step Severus takes towards the safety of his wards now is one less he’ll have to plan for when the shit hits the fan. He’s about two meters away from the edge of his wards when his luck finally runs out. He’s just dodged an increasingly peeved quartet and, in his rush to move forward, misses the straggler that follows them. An unusually fat brown Fae crashes against his bony shoulder and lets out a loud wail, the whiny pest. Its comrades whirl around with horrifyingly efficient synchronicity and clap their tiny hands once in Severus’s direction. He tries to duck, but they are herding him away from his cottage, and he knows he can’t afford to lose ground now. He grits his teeth and stays put, hoping they’re not hitting him with their magical specialty so early on. If they’ve cast the Fae’s Bone Crusher as one, he is, literally, done for.

They'd cast the Blood Boiling Hex instead, and Severus can’t contain his first shocked scream or his second. It’s been a long time since he last was on the receiving end of such a vicious attack. The fluid running through his veins is super-heating, burning him from the inside-out as his blood is forced to bubble. Soon he’ll start bleeding from his nose. His ears and the sides of his eyes will follow swiftly, and then there will be a small window of agony before his body explodes into the sort of smithereens that fall on the ground with a splat. There’s no counter for the Blood Boiling Hex, and through the pain that has already brought him to his knees, Severus realizes he has about six seconds to force the casters' focus away from the hex they’re maintaining, or he’s dead. His growing anger, and the need to retaliate in such horrible way that his attackers will be forced to stop in their tracks, lead him to cast Diffindo. That is a truly terrible curse to use against winged creatures because the Severing Charm is designed to seek seams, so it always cuts vulnerable appendages first. Severus’s left ear is gushing a worrying amount of blood down his neck when the first scream rents the air. He’s cast blindly, desperately, furiously. He’s not certain how wide the arch of his charm’s reach is, but it severs the wings of however many fairies are fluttering within it in one fell swoop.

Abject panic runs through the Fae as soon as their comrades start to fall. Severus hears their terrified wails, and the dull ‘plop,’ ‘plop,’ ‘plop’ of about a dozen tiny bodies hitting the ground, through the ever-thickening fog weakening his focus. He’s lost too much blood. His magic is strained from casting over so many targets at once. He needs to find shelter.

He stumbles back onto his feet while his enemies swarm around their fallen allies, takes a wavering step towards his home, and promptly hits the ground again when a Pummeling Hex lands on his back. The first magical punch takes his breath away, and the second cracks his ribs. His hastily conjured shield takes care of the third punch, and the next five or six, but shatters under the force of an enraged Lancing Maxima. The hex impales him to the ground. Pins him there like a butterfly to a wooden board and forces him to curl around his right thigh in agony. Severus pants through the pain and twists around to face them, thanking Salazar their aim hadn’t been better.

His Diffindo has caused some damage. There are wriggling, glitter-covered bodies scattered all over the ground and a small pile of torn gossamer-thin wings wilt under the combined weight of freshly spilled blood and dust from the road. The fairy leader’s face is more than livid. It positively radiates despairing anguish, and Severus realizes with very little satisfaction that he’s probably left one of the beast’s beloved wingless. “You. Are. Going. To. Die, Wizard.”

Severus takes a panting breath and smirks for all he’s worth. He can imagine the picture he makes, all bloodied gums, grimy features and the unhinged you-are-messing-with-a-Sadistic-Death-Eater-here glimmer in his eyes he hasn’t sported since the end of the war. Some fairies gasp in fright and back away, but their leader is beyond common sense. He’s got the advantage too, so Severus can’t fault his refusal to retreat. He’d do the same in the pest’s place.

The fairy makes a show of bringing his hands together, readying for a casting clap but, before he can complete the motion, Severus raises his wand and layers a Lumos Maxima over an Engorgio and Venomous Serpensortia combination. The sight of a magically enhanced Inland Taipan lunging ferociously at him pushes the fairy leader backward with a shocked wail merely a second before the Lumos unleashes blinding hell upon them. Severus, aware the bright light was coming, had lowered his gaze at the right time, earning himself approximately thirty seconds of grace, which he uses to shrink the lance pinning his leg to the floor for the time being, cast another hurried Disillusionment Charm upon himself and push his rapidly weakening, aching body into an awkward roll towards his cottage.

The howl of outrage the fairy leader lets out when he finally manages to shake off the blinding effects of the Lumos makes Severus’s still overly warm blood freeze in his veins. He knows the beast can’t pinpoint his exact location yet, but that doesn’t seem to deter its anger. The creature casts blindly, clapping again and again with such ferocity that chunks of cobblestone crash left and right as they’re violently upended from the ground upon which they lay. Severus tries to roll homeward faster, but his ribs are toast, his back bruised to high heaven, his right leg fucked half to hell and, to top it all off, he’s probably going into shock from blood loss.

One of the fairy’s stray curses catches his left foot. It’s a bloody Fae’s Bone Crusher, and every bone below his ankle pulses twice as the spell takes hold and shatters all at once. Severus screams his throat raw, giving his position away. The pain is so severe that his Disillusionment Charm drops, and he can’t even bring himself to cast a non-verbal shield with what’s left of his breath. Another Bone Crusher takes hold of his wand arm, destroying the limb from the shoulder down, and Severus forces himself onto his back as his no longer stiff fingers lose their grip on his wand. He’s going to die, right here, right now, and he’d been so bloody close to safety. That final blow struck him down about a foot and a half, maybe two, from the edge of his wards but the shelter they offer is as unreachable to Severus as the fucking shores of France right now. Unless he— yes. He supposes he can try to spin one last trick. One last desperate Slytherin gamble. He’s got nothing to lose after all. 

Severus takes a deep breath and looks up, straight into the eyes of the tiny dot of malevolent energy that’s bested him so soundly, and spits a massive gob of blood and saliva that lands squarely on the fairy’s glittery orange face. The Fae shrieks in outraged disgust and blasts the hell out of Severus with an instinctive Flipendo. Severus grits his teeth, taking a Knock Back Jinx to the solar plexus is rather unpleasant, and he’s already got a set of broken ribs to worry about, but he forces himself to relax into the hit. It’s bound to carry him back a bit further that way. The force of the Jinx lifts him a couple of inches into the air as it pushes him away with brutal swiftness.

Severus feels the moment the wards of his front garden cut the spell’s power off. His backward momentum halts so abruptly that his neck suffers instant whiplash as he drops to the ground. He’s not too bothered by the violent landing, in all honesty. He made it. He can’t believe that worked. He’s always had a knack for driving his enemies into frothing rage and, this time, he’d pushed that brainless fairy into jinxing him directly inside the safety zone that his front garden’s wards provide. They’re state of the art too. “The beasts can’t touch me now. Nothing can.” He crows and starts to laugh wildly over the increasingly choleric howls coming from outside.

Severus’s hysterical laughter is a tad too wet to sound healthy. His chest feels too tight, and he’s developing a worrying dry cough. Past experience tells him his ruptured ribs probably pierced a lung when he was hurled backward. He begins to gasp and realizes he’s running out of time. He should Accio both Blood Replenishing and Pepper-Up potions before he does something as unhelpful and outright dangerous as fainting. The thought flashes, bright and urgent, through his head but doesn’t translate into action. He’s lost his wand and is too weak to cast wandlessly. He’s never been particularly gifted at that, anyway. At least he won’t die out there, in the middle of the road, murdered by bloody fairies, of all things. 

This way is definitely better. He bested the little buggers, after all. He smirks, so fucking proud of himself, and looks up towards the bright blue sky. His wandering mind spares a genuinely apologetic thought for poor Minerva, who’ll have the not-so-pleasant honor of finding his lifeless body come next Friday night. He hopes the shock doesn’t kill her. Wizarding children in general desperately need her now that Albus is gone. Moreover, she still has to straighten up the mischievous nature of skinny little Nathaniel Nothbury or the boy will grow up to become a reckless rascal. She’d promised to do her best, just last month. “I’ll watch over your latest protégé until he turns into a man worthy of you, Severus.” she’d vowed, and it had made him smile so brightly-

Severus’s last conscious thought goes out to the child. He hopes the brat made it home. Hopes his grandmother followed Severus’s instructions and locked her place down. He prays this little set back won’t discourage Nathaniel from his enthusiastic campaign to glitter the entire world orange. It’s important to have ambition when you have no sense whatsoever. Ambition takes you places. It leads you straight to Hogwarts. Lands you in the Slytherin dungeons and gives you enough cunning to help you survive until you grow wiser, wilier, greater. Ambition guides your steps as you learn to rub elbows with the best of the best, and helps you find that place in the Wizarding World that’s only yours to take. A place no one else can fill. Severus is certain that Nathaniel's’ place in the Wizarding World will be bright indeed. Bright and glittery and— orange.  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**  
Chapter 3**

Severus wakes to a world of muted pain, woolly-headed dizziness, and the familiar quietude of the staff’s wing in the Hogwarts’s infirmary. He’s inhabiting the same bed he used to favor when he’d worked as a professor, the one that sits directly under the only window in the place and is, therefore, the single reasonably cool space in the overly heated ward.

It takes him about five groggy blinks to realize that it’s early evening in Scotland, and he’s got not a clue about what day it is or how in the bloody hell he’s ended up here. Surely he’d have bled to death, ended up freezing, or died of starvation in the week that separated his Saturday morning fairy encounter from his Friday evening drinking date with Minerva. He can’t possibly have spent almost a week failing to die in his front garden, can he? Gosh, he’s a hopeless underachiever in that department, and he rarely ever remembers the bloody ordeals. His mind should have the decency of allowing him to recall at least one ghastly detail of his no-doubt hellish experience this time around. He has no recollection of what happened in the shack after he’d lost consciousness, either.

“How are you feeling, Severus?” Minerva’s soft question startles him into looking towards the bedside chair he’d assumed would be empty. Why he’d assumed such a thing, Severus doesn’t know. He’s not alone anymore. Hadn’t been alone back then either, despite his reluctance to see it at the time. Minerva must have found him and brought him here. There’s no way she would have willingly left his side in those circumstances. Severus wouldn’t have left hers if their roles were reversed.

“Like I’ve been trampled by a stampeding swarm of Trooping Fairies.” He tries to smile but, judging by the distressed look on her face, fails at it abysmally. “Salazar, I’m out of shape. Those blasted gnats kicked my arse in under six minutes.”

“Don’t you dare jest about that. The fairies could have killed you. They _would_ have killed you if your precious protégé hadn’t run straight to Harry.”

Severus frowns, confused. “Harry?”

“Don’t play dumb either, Severus. You know as well as I do that Harry Potter is the Auror in charge of patrolling Sunlit Lane.” Minerva growls, apparently deciding to vent her worry in the form of anger at his supposed slight against the blasted Savior.

“Give me a break, woman. Poppy has me stuffed so full of pain-relieving potions I can barely remember my own name, and you expect me to recognize Potter’s? It’s not like the brat and I are bosom buddies, Min-min.” He reminds her and watches her sag against the backrest of her chair as if a voracious Dementor has just drained the last drop of energy keeping her upright.

“Never mind that. Young Mr. Nothbury ran straight to Harry, and he rushed to assist you. It’s his job, Severus. You should have summoned him to the scene by sending a volley of sparks up in the air or something, instead of acting like a brainless idiot and allowing yourself to be cornered by a bunch of wild fairies.”

“Me? Acting like a brainless idi—Minerva!”

“Do not _Minerva_ me, young man. Do you have any idea of how worried I’ve been since Harry showed up with what looked like your corpse in tow? I flashed back to the Final Battle, Severus. In the middle of the Great Hall. I must have frightened half the children with my hysterics.”

Severus stares at her, wide-eyed. They don’t often acknowledge how much they’ve been damaged by the roles they played during the Second Wizarding War. Or how deeply they care for one another. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just— I saw little Nathaniel in danger and summoning law enforcement, summoning Potter, was the last thing on my mind. You know I learned the hard way to avoid Aurors at all costs, Min-min.”

“You should have relied on Harry though. He never hurt you back then.”

“He was a child back then too, and I— I know I shouldn’t, because he’s all grown up and powerful to boot, but I played the role of his protector for so long that it goes against my instincts to summon him close to danger.”

“He’s pretty pissed off about it, as am I. Some idiot or other at the DMLE has launched an inquiry into the whole thing. It looks bad for the Safe Neighborhood Program that you came so close to death after being attacked virtually on your doorstep while a patrolling Auror was on duty. I heard Prickard pretty much imply that Harry ignored your plight on purpose because of a war-related grudge.”

“That’s ridiculous. You just said Potter rushed to my assistance as soon as he learned what was going on.”

“Yes. But Harry arrived too late, lad. The fairies had already dispersed, and the lane was empty. He found recent signs of a magical confrontation. Followed the worryingly long trail of blood leading directly to your property, and found you passed out in your front garden, mostly exsanguinated and slowly choking to death. He found your wand too. T-the fairies— they snapped it, Severus.”

Severus recoils when he hears the news. His throat grows tight, and his dark eyes burn with the weight of a grief that’s much heavier than he’d have expected. It’s not like his wand was a person. It was only a wooden stick. Severus can Apparate to Ollivander’s and buy himself another one any time he wants. It’s not like-

Fuck. That piece of wood has been in his possession since he was eleven. Being chosen by it is the first act of magic Severus ever experienced, and he’s always been inordinately fond of that memory. That wand has protected him, avenged him, and accompanied him during the best -and the worst- moments of his life.

“I’m so sorry,” Minerva whispers into his grief-stricken silence, and Severus realizes he can’t answer. Not in words. He’ll break into a million pieces if he so much as opens his mouth right now, so he nods dumbly and tries to curl his hands into fists. The sudden pain that flashes through his right hand the moment he attempts to close his fingers makes him bend double instinctively, curl his shaking body over his wounded limb protectively, and cry out in shock.

Minerva rushes to his side so fast that Severus would have teased her about using her position as the school’s Headmistress to perform unsanctioned in-Hogwarts Apparations when it suits her if he’d been in the right frame of mind. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right, I promise. Just breathe through the pain of it, lad.” She advises in her matter-of-fact teacher tone while patting his shoulder awkwardly. Minerva has never been particularly motherly and is as bad at the touchy-feely side of friendship as Severus himself. Comforting shoulder patting was always Albus’s territory.

“Your hand is taking its sweet time to heal, that’s all,” Minerva explains soothingly, watching carefully as Severus takes a deep breath through his nose and holds it in for a few seconds before letting it back out. “There are too many small bones to regrow in that area. Poppy says Skele-gro is too blunt a tool to use on such delicate reconstruction job, and with your line of work— We’re trying our best to ensure you retain full mobility, Severus.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“She’s mixing Skele-Gro with Bone Shaving Paste, isn’t she? She’s trying to minimize the overly large size typical of Skele-Gro replicas caused by the potion’s over-enthusiastic production of new bone.”

“She said something along those lines. You’ll probably understand her ramblings better than I do. Poppy didn’t give you Skele-Gro. She dosed you with Oseum-Knit-Supreme-Something-Or-Other on Master Bollingfrog’s advice. He’s developing some sort of universal cure for bone-related injuries that will supposedly make Skele-Gro obsolete.”

Severus blinks, unable to comprehend how it is possible that Emille Bollingfrog, one of the most illustrious and internationally renowned Potions figures of their time, not only managed to hear whispers of little old Severus Snape’s fairy-induced wounds but also bothered to give Poppy Pomfrey advice on how to treat them. “I read about that on Potioneer's Quarterly. Bollingfrog is running human trials in Germany for his latest Fracture Be Gone formula. It’s going to revolutionize the treatment currently offered on Wizarding Trauma Centers.” Severus whispers dazedly, signs of honest to Merlin hero-worship shining brightly across his face. “I can’t believe I’m now part of all that. I’m his first British test-subject. Am I not, Minerva?”

“I’m not sure about that. The man was only here for five minutes.”

Severus jolts in the bed and looks around wildly. “Bollingfrog was here?”

Minerva laughs, delighted at seeing him so flustered for once, and pats his shoulder fondly. “Where else would he have gone? This is where Harry brought you, and Bollingfrog wanted to see your injuries up close. Apparently, nobody has been lucky enough to survive a Fae’s Bone Crusher in at least three centuries.”

“That’s—I- I can’t believe I almost met Emille Bollingfrog, Min-min. He’s been my academic hero since I was 12 years old.”

“Then you’re going to be a happy man indeed, lad, because that hero of yours is equally smitten with your potion and spell-crafting prowess. He’s especially impressed by your improvements to the Wolfsbane Potion, and that Ocluxir formula you patented two years ago. He’s also a regular Mufliato caster and is convinced that his experimental brew would be a lot more effective if it were administered via specialized charm, something along the lines of your Vulnera Sanentur. He’s been collecting more data than he needs these past six months in the hope of catching something that’ll pick your curiosity enough to entice you into accepting a commission to create it. I thought he was going to burst into song when he realized the Bone Crusher survivor that Poppy’s St. Mungo supervisor had contacted him about was you.”

Severus can’t believe his ears. He’s dreaming. He has to be dreaming. And he has no interest at all in waking up. This is, hands down, the best bloody dream he’s ever had. Bollingfrog, Emille Fucking Bollingfrog, knows who he is. Is impressed by Severus’s measly contributions to the art of potion-making, and wants him to develop a customized charm for his revolutionary universal bone cure. That’s— crazy, right? It can’t possibly be true. Severus must have finally gone round the bend.

Severus stares unblinkingly at Minerva, wondering why his crazy mind wouldn’t have been kinder to her and erased the bruise-blue bags under her eyes instead of creating so unlikely a professionally appealing scenario. His dearest, closest, friend looks so very old and tired that Severus can hardly stand it on a good day. Wouldn’t he be hallucinating her happier if he’d really gone crazy, or at least crazier than usual? “You can’t be serious,” he ventures at last, deciding to test the waters. Maybe he’s not mad after all. Maybe she’s just trying to tease him.

Minerva cocks her head to the side in that sharp, bird-like gesture of hers that has the power of making Severus feel hopelessly naked. She often reads him like a book, and it’s a thoroughly unnerving experience. “Why would you doubt me? It’s true that the man was here, lad. He’s larger than Horace and has a most dreadful mustache. Reminds me of a balding walrus who is inexplicably fond of wearing ghastly silk scarves. He doesn’t look very dignified, does he? Albus would have loved him to bits.”

“Yes, he would have.” Severus laughs at her accurate description of every picture he’s ever seen of Emille Bollingfrog. He finds the way Minerva’s tiny nose wrinkles in disdain at the illustrious potion master’s choice of attire a bit ironic. It’s difficult to take fashion outrage seriously when it's voiced by a tartan-loving witch with a penchant for two-hundred-year-old hats.

“Did Bollingfrog mention whe—

“Sorry to interrupt, Master Snape, Headmistress McGonagall, but we’ve DMLE business to conduct, and our time is precious.”

Both Minerva and Severus look towards the doorway, where Michael Waxley Prickard, the bastard bully who had plagued Severus’s first few years as a Hogwarts’ teacher with constant disrespect and a student-led rebellion that held his youth against him, stands. Prickard holds a fussily feathered quill in his right hand and an official-looking clipboard on his left. Harry Potter towers over his shoulder, sporting a most admirable thunderous scowl.

Minerva scowls too, most probably ticked off by Prickard’s pompous dig about the preciousness of his time. Severus’s left eyebrow rises in silent inquiry, inviting the ridiculous idiot to speak further. Severus never liked the boy Prickard had been and doesn’t much like the man he’s grown into either, so he sees no point in interacting with him unless he has to. At this point, he doesn’t have to. Prickard has no reason to be here. He’s some sort of Ministry toady, one who holds a position so obscure that Severus has no idea what the hell the man does with his days, nor does he care. Severus has the awful suspicion that he’s about to find out regardless.

“How can we help you, Mr. Prickard? I certainly have no wish to impose more than strictly necessary on your precious time.” Minerva says crisply. Potter registers the coolness of her tone and has the good sense to flinch. Prickard shows no sense whatsoever.

“That’s Senior Inquisitor Prickard, if you will, Headmistress. The Ministry Of Magic has opened an investigation into the circumstances surrounding the attack by magical pest that endangered the life of one Severus Tobias Snape, of Sunlit Lane, Surrey. The Magical Assault in question took place on Saturday the—

“I thought we were short on time, Michael. Everyone here already knows what happened and when.” Potter pipes up, cutting off his companion’s officious little recitation just as Severus’s suddenly heavy eyelids start hinting their displeasure with his tenacious refusal to sleep. He is incredibly tired and still woolly-headed. Bollingfrog’s cure-all certainly packs a punch.

“Well, I’d never-” Prickard splutters pointlessly, and Severus smirks in amused pleasure.

“I’m afraid I agree with Auror Potter, Senior Inquisitor Prickard.” Severus enters the fray for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else. He’s not keen on falling asleep with either man in the room, and the chances his traitorous body might decide to ignore the dictates of his will and force the issue rise with every increasingly slow blink he takes. “I must urge you to be hasty if you wish to interrogate me. The potions currently coursing through my system are designed to encourage rest.”

Prickard huffs like a disgruntled cockatoo and steps forward. “As you wish, Master Snape. The last thing either the DMLE or The Ministry Of Magic desires is to impinge on your recovery. May I be so bold as to request extra seating for myself and my associate? I see only one bedside chair next to you.”

Minerva swishes her wand so sharply a loud whoosh follows the motion, and the most uncomfortable pair of chairs Severus has ever seen materializes so close to their ‘guests’ that they both take a hasty step sideways to avoid being hit on the shin by the settling furniture. “There you go, Inquisitor Prickard, let’s agree to drop the Senior part of your title, shall we? It’s too much of a mouthful to pronounce every two sentences, especially when you’re already short on time. Please feel free to take a seat.” She growls while pointedly remaining by Severus’s side even as both men sit.

“First of all, allow me to extend my most sincere apologies on behalf of both the DMLE and the Ministry of Magic for your current state of health, Master Snape. Moreover, I wish to reassure you that the memory of the fairy attack that a member of the Ministry’s Forensic Team was forced to extract without your consent while you were unconscious will be returned to you, alongside what’s left of your snapped wand, as soon as the DMLE closes the case. It is my hope that you don’t feel unsafe in the present company but, please, let me know if you do.”

Severus frowns. “Why would I feel unsafe?”

“You’ve got no wand at your disposal.” Prickard points out tactlessly, and Severus doesn’t like the malicious little look the bastard throws Potter’s way. “You must feel especially vulnerable right now. It could be argued that the entirely avoidable loss of your wand directly threatens your well-being.”

“I don’t think so. A dear friend of mine is standing, wand at the ready, by my side while one of the DMLE’s finest sits not five feet away. I freely confess I’ve seldom felt safer, Inquisitor Prickard.”

“Hmmm.” The insufferable prat grunts unhappily and makes a show of copying Severus’s stiff answer onto the parchment affixed to his clipboard.

“This is an official inquiry form, Master Snape. I feel compelled to inform you that the parchment has been dipped in Veritaserum. Once you sign your name upon it, every falsehood recorded here will be highlighted, and it could be used against you on a Wizengamot hearing should Wizarding law find you guilty of obstructing the course of justice.”

“And, pray tell, what course of justice would I be obstructing? I hope you’re not here to accuse me of wrongdoing for trying to rescue a frightened child from a bunch of wild fairies.”

“Your actions in your own defense and that of young Mr. Nathatiel Nothbury aren’t the focus of my investigation, Master Snape. I’m here to judge Auror Potter’s fitness to perform the duties that are part and parcel of his job description. A neighborhood patrolman has failed to rescue a child and a middle-aged private citizen from the danger they encountered while on the middle-aged wizard’s doorstep. Said patrolman was on duty. The middle-aged wizard almost died. The child is possibly traumatized. I’m certain you can see why the Department of Performance Standards has demanded an inquiry into this matter. Whispers of incompetence often cast long and nasty shadows. The Ministry can’t afford either a public safety scandal or one hinting at official discrimination against a former spy with fully sanctioned ties to the Death Eaters.”

“I see.”

“This inquiry’s goal is to ensure that both your safety and civil rights as a law-abiding citizen of the British Isles are being protected in good faith, Master Snape. Please do not lie to me during the course of my investigation.”

Oh, boy, Severus doesn’t like the sound of this. Someone in the bloody Ministry is out to get Harry Potter, and it looks like they’re willing to use the fallout of Severus’s little fairy debacle as leverage. Kingsley’s hands better be tied pretty dammed tight if he’s allowing this travesty, unless he’s trusting Severus to get the brat out of this mess, and has chosen a better battleground to launch a more spirited defense of his pet Savior already. “Why would I lie to you, Inquisitor Prickard?”

“You claim to trust Auror Potter’s ability to defend you in case of danger.”

“So?”

“Auror Potter has submitted his own account of what his professional interactions with you have been like since he assumed his role as the ministry assigned protector of your neighborhood. Auror Potter’s report was written in Veritaserum-infused parchment, Master Snape. In his report, Auror Potter states that it is his professional opinion that you do not consider him qualified to protect your person against a magical threat.”

“Auror Potter’s professional opinion is obviously a load of bollocks, then.”

“Severus!” Minerva half-laughs while trying her best to appear to admonish him sternly. Potter stares at him, wide-eyed, while Prickard goes purple in the face. The hand holding that utterly poncy quill of his twitching apoplectically.

“You realize I must write down your answers verbatim, do you not, Master Snape?” Prickard squeaks, perhaps under the misguided impression that Severus gives a shit about his squeamish reluctance to write an obscenity or two on his precious official inquiry parchment.

“Write away, I beg you.” Severus invites magnanimously, thoroughly enjoying the pompous git’s discomfort.

“Why do you describe Auror Potter’s professional opinion thus?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Potter defeated bloody Voldemort with an Expeliamus, Inquisitor. He’s patently overqualified to defend little old me.”

“Auror Potter’s report states that you have, and I quote: _‘never engaged in casual conversation with me nor brought to my attention any matters that especially concern him regarding either his personal s_ _afety,_ _or the neighborhood’s in general, in the twenty-seven months I’ve been in charge of the Sunlit Lane’s beat.’_ ”

“So what? I don’t need to speak to him to recognize his dammed magical prowess. Of course Harry Potter can protect me, my entire neighborhood, and every other bloody neighborhood in England. He’s done it already too. Anyone willing to deny that is an utterly dumb moron.”

Prickard’s fluffy quill flutters left and right before falling from its owner’s seemingly lax fingers. Minerva struggles to turn her delighted snort into a thoroughly unconvincing cough attack, and Potter looks poleaxed. There’s a strangely vulnerable expression taking hold of Potter’s features, and Severus doesn’t want to see it there. He doesn’t want to feel responsible for it, and finds the idea of anyone else seeing it at all positively revolting. Harry Potter should never again have a reason to look vulnerable. He earned that right at wand point almost seven years ago, if nothing else.

“Do you also dispute Auror Potter’s report that he recently attempted to engage you in friendly conversation, and you failed to respond to his greeting?”

“Do I strike you as a man who regularly engages in friendly conversation?” Severus snaps impatiently, trying to put Prickard on the defensive. He’s grown impossibly tired in the last minute or so. His focus isn’t at his sharpest, so there is a chance that he will make a mistake neither he nor Potter would be in a position to rectify once he signs that blasted form. Playing the careful game of I’ll-Hide-My-Lies-In-The-Closest-Related-Truth-Vaguely-Pertinent-To-Your-Question that’s often the only way to fool Veritaserum requires both close attention to detail and an inexperienced interrogator. Or at least one stupid enough to allow himself to be flustered. Severus is an old hat at flustering inquisitors. He’s run rings around much tougher cookies than Michael Bloody Prickard, but he’d done that while in full possession of his faculties. Right now he’s drugged to the gills, and in enough pain to be seriously considering setting his right arm on fire.

“I wouldn’t dream of making that sort of judgment, Master Snape,” Prickard replies stiffly and gosh, but Severus grows tired of the little toad’s officiousness.

“Wouldn’t you, Inquisitor? I remember a time when you had no such scruples. You once judged me on my age, my looks, my blood status, my ‘downright nasty’ character, my house affiliation, and my fitness to perform a job I was both qualified for and had been hired to do. Since you’re still showing a rather consistent inclination to judge other people’s fitness to perform their duties, I’d say it’s safe to assume the rest of your judgmental tendencies haven’t changed over time.”

Prickard’s back is now so stiff Severus is honestly shocked he hasn’t heard it snap yet. The inquisitor’s narrow face is blotchy red, and his tiny blue eyes glare at Severus with a familiar mix of blatant disrespect and growing alarm. Prickard comes from a long line of stiff upper lip pureblood elitists. He doesn’t like direct confrontation, plain speech, or being called out on his bad behavior, past or present, by a lowly half-blood. Severus would bet plenty of his hard-earned galleons on the chances of the man walking out of this meeting straight into a bathtub filled to the brim with boiling hot water and magically collected rose petals. He can easily imagine the idiot’s eagerness to macerate himself thus in the hope of removing the taint left on his precious pureblood skin by Severus’s half-blooded company and the muggle tendencies Potter often displays due to his muggle upbringing.

“It is not my place to judge anyone, Master Snape, let alone you. I collect information that may be used to do so, but that is also a decision I’m not qualified to make. I leave that responsibility to the Wizengamot, just as I left it in the hands of Hogwarts's council when I was a student here. I had every right to protest your appointment as a teacher back then, just as I have a duty to perform my job to the best of my ability in the present circumstances.”

“I hope that between the memory already in your possession and this interview you’ve managed to collect all the information you need, Inquisitor. Severus has had a very trying ordeal and is meant to be resting. Madam Pomfrey will have my hide if I allow you to disturb him for much longer.” Minerva intervenes crisply. Potter cringes, and Prickard shrinks in his chair very slightly. Severus frowns. Prickard was one of the few students who wasn’t positively terrified of her, way back when. Maybe it isn’t her displeasure that disturbs him, perhaps it's the idea of being thrown out on his arse that is rubbing Prickard’s prim and proper sensibilities the wrong way.

“I’ve got a few questions left. I promise to be swift.” Prickard mumbles stiffly, finally Accioing that ridiculous quill of his up from the floor.

“Get on with it then.” Minerva snaps with all the subtlety she’s never had. There is a reason why she used to be the head of the Gryffindor House, after all. Potter shifts anxiously in his chair while Prickard twitches angrily at her tone. It’s becoming apparent that the Inquisitor isn’t used to being dismissed, and he hates it with a passion. Michael Prickard reminds Severus of Dolores Umbridge, and just like he did with her, Severus wonders who the hell has given this little nobody so inflated a sense of his own importance. Tools, they’re both nothing but tools. Umbridge’s elitist ideals had led her to serve Voldemort’s purposes better than most ‘proper’ Death Eaters. Severus would bet his Order Of Merlin on the chances that Prickard’s equally rigid beliefs are helping some cowardly ministry higher up further his own agenda. Whoever they are, Severus hopes Shacklebolt eats their balls for breakfast in the not so distant future.

“If, as you’ve already stated, you trust Auror Potter’s ability to protect you -and other members of your neighborhood- in the event of a magical attack then explain in your own words why you failed to summon him when you were facing an enraged group of Trooping Fairies who clearly outnumbered you.”

Severus sighs. He’s tired, in pain, and can’t honestly see any danger in admitting the truth, so he does. As painful as reveling it may be, as vulnerable as it’ll leave him, candor is the best possible defense he can think of. “I did not think of it. I was too busy trying to ensure both Nathaniel’s and my own survival. I agree that, in the same circumstances, most people would instinctively seek help, but I’ve led the sort of life were no cavalry has ever showed up to save the day. I did not summon Auror Potter because I’m a traumatized war survivor who, when faced with danger, flashes back to some of the worst moments of his life. I fought those fairies like I fought in the war. It’s what I did for twenty long years, Inquisitor. Habits such as those are difficult to break.”

Silence descends upon the room, as thick and suffocating as a fur-lined blanket wrapped too tightly around one’s body on a bright summer day. Minerva’s distressed gasp breaks the quietude. Her hand settles upon Severus’s bony shoulder in a motherly gesture of reassurance, and Severus turns towards her, eager to avoid looking at the other men. She looks pale and haunted, guilt written large in her brown gaze. Severus has never begrudged her naivete in believing him a traitor after he’d murdered Albus. Yes, he’d wished she’d had more faith in him, especially during the darkest days of his awful tenure as Hogwarts’s Headmaster, but Albus’s plan had hinged on everyone in the Order disowning Severus. The Dark Lord wouldn’t have grown to trust him as much as he did by the end if Minerva hadn’t tried to murder him.

“Gosh! That’s one hell of a fucking blunt answer, Snape.” Potter chokes out. His gaze is soft with pride-ripping compassion, and he seems to be trembling from head to toes. Even Prickard looks a bit wild about the eyes as he holds onto his quill for dear life, carefully scribbling Severus’s answer on his official inquiry form.

“I’d urge you not to speak any further to my witness until I’ve completed my inquiry, Auror Potter. Any attempt on your part to communicate with Master Snape at this point could be presented in a court of law as an attempt to influence his testimony.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Prickard! Can’t you pull that damned stick out of your arse for one bloody minute?” Minerva snaps. “Harry here isn't trying to ‘influence’ your witness. There’s nothing to witness after all. You already have the memory of the attack, and Severus wasn’t even conscious when Harry showed up at his place, so what in the bloody hell are you trying to accomplish with this ridiculous interview of yours?”

“It took Auror Potter exactly five minutes and fourteen seconds to arrive at Master Snape’s location after young Mr. Nothbury first reported the incident that resulted in Master Snape’s life-threatening condition and the unlawful snapping of his wand.” The inquisitor says tightly.

“So?” Minerva all but growls, not too impressed with Prickard’s latest recitation of facts.

“Auror Potter’s average Apparating time on DMLE record for a distance equal to the one separating his initial position when Mr. Nothbury reached him to Mr. Snape’s location is forty two seconds. Had he arrived at Master Snape’s doorstep in that time frame, Auror Potter may have been able to prevent the worst of Master Snape’s injuries. He’d have ensured that a civilian’s wand was never illegally snapped, and apprehended the still at large perpetrators of a heinous crime.”

“Oh!”

Potter shrinks in his chair upon hearing Minerva’s little gasp of shocked horror. How she manages to infuse such barely-there sound with that amount of disappointment Severus has never known, but he’s found himself on the receiving end of it often enough to know precisely how Potter feels right now.

“Do you still feel safe in the present company, Master Snape?” Prickard pushes his advantage with the type of unholy smirk Severus hates to see gracing the lips of an honest to Merlin bully. Minerva’s trembling fingertips curl protectively around his shoulder, and he’s sure she’s about to rip Potter a new one for daring to take his sweet time in coming to Severus’s assistance. Severus himself isn’t overly concerned with the moral weight Prickard is trying to attach to the delay in Potter’s response. Severus is a practical fellow. He is aware that Potter doesn’t like him, has never done so, and probably never will.

Potter is a man of honor, though. Severus understands there must be more to this supposed time-discrepancy than meets the eye, but his head is pounding like there’s no tomorrow, and he’s wilting where he sits. He needs time to think about this. Time to examine the handful of facts Prickard has chosen to give him and figure out how the inquisitor is using them to manipulate him. Because Prickard is trying to manipulate him. Of that, Severus is certain.

Severus looks at Potter and sees a heavy sort of anguish darkening the usual brightness of the Auror’s verdant gaze. He doesn’t see shame. Or malice. Potter is subdued, but not remorseful. Whatever his reason for taking his sweet time to arrive at Severus’s doorstep Potter is at peace with his decision. Severus doesn’t think the brat has it in him to carry out a murder through inaction. If Potter did then Severus wouldn’t be here, he’d have died in the shack six years ago. Potter had gone back for him then, and he’d showed up to save him this time around too. “Yes. I do.” He says calmly, and three equally startled gasps of disbelief rent the air in comical unison.

“Are you certain?” Prickard squeaks, horrified. His poncy quill is frozen in place just above his precious inquiry form, dripping ink drops onto the Veritaserum-infused parchment. “If I were to write a falsehood upon this paper, it will not remain undiscovered, Master Snape.”

Severus stares at Prickard. The man’s apparent displeasure with the results of his ‘investigation’ is written all over his face. His nasty little blue eyes are narrowed, and his mouth is pursed into a tight, whitish, line. There is a stiffness about his otherwise perfect pureblood posture that broadcasts deep frustration, and the fact that he’s lost that god-awful satisfied smirk he’d been sporting a mere minute ago is enough to convince Severus that whoever is behind this travesty of an inquiry has nothing of substance against Potter. Prickard obviously wants Severus to make a fuss. That means Potter is being unjustly raked over the coals, and Severus may not care much for the boy, but he’d be damned before he adds the sin of ungratefulness to his already long-enough list of shortcomings. Potter saved his life twice. He saved everybody’s life, Prickard’s included. Had the Dark Lord won the war he’d have almost immediately set about the business of making an example of every traditionally dark Wizarding family who failed to join his side. Prickard’s wouldn’t have been spared.

“Yes. I’m confident that Auror Harry James Potter can and will protect me to the best of his ability in the event of a magical threat against my person, Senior Inquisitor Prickard.”

“Severus, maybe you should wai—“ Severus shifts, pressing his left foot against the mattress on purpose. The excruciating flash of pain that rips through his limb makes him bend double in genuine shock. Bollingfrog’s cure-all may be better than Skele-Gro, but it’s certainly slower. Severus knows for a fact that the bones in his foot wouldn’t feel so fragile hours after the initial trauma if he’d been treated with Skele-Gro. Minerva’s focus shifts from whatever objection she’d been about to voice to his curled up form. The supportive hand she’d placed around his shoulder glides up and down his back in a gentle, soothing and motherly motion that catches on the knobs of his spine. Severus turns blindly towards her and presses his face against her side, trying to hide his sweat-soaked features in the comforting softness of her tartan robes. Her wand hand settles upon his head protectively, gentle fingertips carding through his dark hair affectionately. Severus loves her fiercely in this one instant, just like he’s loved her fiercely in so many others. She’s the mother he’d have chosen for himself if he’d been allowed to do so. The only mother he’d ever had in more ways than one. Salazar knows Eileen Prince hadn’t been fit to rear children. She should have never been allowed to have one to start with.

“This interview is now at an end, Inquisitor Prickard. I believe Severus has answered your questions and has nothing further to contribute to your investigation. Please make your way out of Hogwarts’s grounds directly. Both of you.” She says crisply, and the uncomfortable silence that had been coming from the chairs on the other side of the bed breaks with the sound of hastily shifting furniture.

“Minerva—

“Not now, Mr. Potter. Please go.”

“Don’t worry, Headmistress. I’ll escort Auror Potter out of the premises myself. I—er wish you a swift recovery, Master Snape.” Prickard mutters stiffly before stalking away, Potter presumably in tow. Severus flushes with the embarrassment of having shown himself so weak before these men who have no care for him. He consoles himself with the knowledge that his relative mild humiliation protected Potter from Minerva’s harsh judgment. It also thwarted Prickard’s apparent goal of manipulating either of them into making enough of a fuss to justify the filing of an official complaint against Potter.

Severus no longer cares about the politics of the situation. He’s saved Potter’s bacon for now, and Shacklebolt can go ahead and do whatever he’s planning on doing to fix the mess the boy is in without involving Severus any further. He’s no longer the Order’s reluctant fixer of all Potter-related troubles. Severus has a postwar life to live that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Ministry. Or politics. Or the never-ending power squabbles between the old pureblood guard’s painfully outdated worldview, and the vision of the young, war-forged elite that earned its chance to decide where Wizarding Britain goes from here in a battlefield almost seven years ago.

Severus’s immediate plans for the future include recovering from his injuries in the familiar comfort of Hogwarts. Meeting Master Bollingfrog as soon as humanly possible. Suggesting adding some sort of accelerating agent to increase the healing rate of the man’s formula, and accepting his commission to design a customized delivery charm for the brand new potion. Once he’s properly healed, he’ll buy himself a new wand and go back home to his garden, his books, and his amusing interactions with young Nathaniel Nothbury. Potter will return to patrolling Severus’s lane, existing from nine to five in the fringes of his life without impacting it much, and that will be the end of this.

Severus smiles sleepily. He’s surprisingly content with the mundane simplicity of his short-term future. He is looking forward to most of it, in fact.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Severus wakes to birdsong, bright sunshine and Minerva’s solemn features. He’s uncertain of the time, but the infirmary has that hush-hush quality Severus instinctively associates with weekends. There are no children wailing in the public antechambers, coming in from either a DADA or a Potions class gone wrong. The usual afternoon melee caused by friendly -and not so friendly- hexing, coupled with the fallout of the latest Wheezes’s tricks and Quidditch practice-related bumps and bruises hasn’t started yet. Everything is calm and quiet, peaceful in a way Hogwarts’s sickrooms rarely are. Severus blinks away the last remnants of sleep and smiles contentedly. Although there’s a muted, achy melancholy weighing his chest, the feeling is not as bad as he’d feared it’d be. This is Hogwarts, after all. The place holds too many painful memories for him, and Severus wouldn’t have returned of his own free will if he’d been given the choice. Not yet, at least. He hasn’t set foot in the place since the final battle, much to his ex-colleagues unanimous dismay.

“You’re finally awake. How are you feeling, Severus?” Minerva’s greeting is calm but more absentminded than usual, and Severus wonders if she’s managed any sleep at all since Potter brought him here.

“I feel better, thank you,” he says quietly, wiggling the fingertips of his right hand to make sure this is so. The new joints feel weak and tender, but his knuckles aren’t overly swollen and, for that, he is thankful. Bollingfrog’s bone cure is as good as the man believes it to be, then. Severus’s hand will make a full recovery, its former range of motion preserved. Severus will be able to continue brewing for a living until he tires of it. That’s a pleasant thought to wake up to. A pleasant thought indeed.

Minerva smiles for the first time, age-worn stern features turning warm with affection, with relief, as she witnesses his cautious finger wiggling. “That was a very close call, Severus.”

“I’m fine, Min-min.”

“Yes, but—

“No. I’m fine. I’m safe. The war is over. You no longer have to fear for my life whenever you lose sight of me, all right? I’m going to outlive you, you, foolish, sentimental hag.”

Minerva chuckles, but the sound is tired and a bit too despondent for Severus’s liking. “You promise?” 

“Of course I promise. This cold Scottish air you insist on breathing will kill you before you’re 150 unless you see sense in the near future and move down to balmy Surrey like every other reasonable witch your age.” 

“Surrey is not balmy,” Minerva points out, and this time her chuckle is livelier when he mock pouts for her benefit.

“It’s balmier than this, that’s for sure. And I won’t go all the way to France or even Spain in search of ‘proper’ sunshine. Strong light that hasn’t been diluted by a thick layer of cloud wreaks havoc with my complexion. Besides, people in the continent can’t brew a proper cup of tea to save their lives. It’s an outrage, Min-min. No. I shall remain in England to further torment you every winter from now on. It’s my moral duty to gloat shamelessly about the superiority of my choice in balmy, southern dwellings while you freeze your bones up here.”

“Good. I fear I won’t be able to straighten that mischievous little menace you’ve taken a liking to without your input, Severus. He sent you a get well card, by the way. It arrived two hours ago, and neither Poppy nor I can understand what it’s supposed to depict.”

Severus smiles anew. “Art isn’t Nathaniel’s forte.”

“You don’t say.” Minerva deadpans, raising from her seat to fill a glass with water.

“Is it orange?” Severus asks, pushing himself into a sitting position and flopping against the mound of pillows she plumps for him with a single wand swish before handing him the glass.

“Like a carrot. A glitter-covered one. My poor eyeballs are still twitching.”

“It’s good to hear that Nathaniel has retained his sunny disposition after his frightening encounter with the Trooping Fairies. He’ll sort Gryffindor if I don’t manage to instill at least some sense into his thick skull by the time he’s eleven.”

“There’s nothing wrong with sorting Gryffindor.”

“Pft!”

“At least you have plenty of time to work your Slytherin magic on him. I wager you’ll fail, young Mr. Nothbury will make a fine Hufflepuff. He’s a lovely child, Severus.”

Severus hums in agreement, drains his glass of water, and motions for her to hand over his get-well card. It’s orange indeed. And positively hideous. It’s, without a doubt, one of the ugliest sights Severus has had the unfortunate privilege of sighting in the entirety of his life, and he loves it to bits. He’s wondering about whether the grayish blob on the upper right-hand corner is supposed to be Wisp, the nothing-wispy-about-it toad that Severus’s closest neighbor, Mr. Slowspy, dotes on when Minerva clears her throat. 

“Harry came to see you this morning.”

Severus looks at her, startled. “Why?”

“He didn’t say. I— Prickard got to me, Severus. I wasn’t very kind to Harry when I first clapped eyes on him.”

“I see.”

“I refused to let him in, but he explained his actions to me. Prickard wasn’t lying, exactly, but he failed to mention that the reason for Harry’s delay in reaching you had been included in that report he was quoting from. Apparently, Harry chose to deliver young Nathaniel to his grandmother’s house before Apparating to you. Explaining the situation to Mrs. Nothbury, and calming her down after that, took a while.”

“So Potter was doing his job competently.” Severus drawls neutrally, “He prioritized securing the safety of a frightened child over assisting a fully trained wizard who is well known for his extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts. Why are you looking so crushed, Min-min? Your precious savior's character has proved to be golden, after all.”

“I doubted him at the first implication of wrongdoing like I once doubted you, Severus. I took Prickard’s nasty insinuations at face value and trusted them more than the personal opinion I developed over a decade-long close acquaintance with a man I know to be honorable to a fault. I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Please, don’t be. Gullibility is a Gryffindor’s most endearingly quaint trait. Prickard is a Slytherin, Minerva. He knew exactly what buttons to push when it came to you, and he pushed them with gusto.” 

“But you trusted Harry, regardless of what he said.” 

“Me? Trust Potter? No. I simply recognize an underhanded set up when I see one. Prickard may be a Slytherin, but he’s not a brilliant one.”

“I told Harry he wouldn’t be allowed to visit you until I had your permission to let him in.”

Severus shoots a thoroughly horrified look at the door that connects the infirmary with the rest of the castle. “Please don’t tell me he’s still waiting outside.”

“Of course not. Harry left. Had some errands to run or some such. But he asked me to relay his explanation to you.”

“And you’ve done so. Well done. Now this subject is finally closed.”

“Is that it?” Minerva asks him impatiently, evidently dissatisfied with his lackluster reaction. Severus sighs, and looks down to stare at Nathaniel’s talent-less drawing.

“What is it you wish me to do instead?” 

“I don’t know. Something. Harry is trying to reach out to you.”

“He isn’t. He’s an Auror. He’s attempting to reassure a wounded civilian placed under his professional protection that he acted in good faith during the magical attack that resulted in said civilian’s injuries. Now that he’s done that, I don’t expect to see much of him. The case is closed. Potter’s precious reputation is safe for now. We’ll go back to ignoring each other, and that’ll be the end of that.”

“Prickard said Harry has been trying to chat you up.”

Severus gapes at her, honestly shocked by the inaccurate implication in her telling choice of words. “Potter hasn’t been ‘chatting me up,’ Min-min. He wished me a good morning through the kitchen window recently, that’s all.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, stubbornly. “How recently?”

“Last week. Why?” 

“Is that why you suddenly decided to ‘enhance’ the length of the hedge that surrounds your front garden? I thought your explanation about that was a tad iffy.”

“Iffy? What’s iffy about expressing a desire to look after my bloody hedge?” 

“Everything. You’re no Neville Longbottom, Severus. You’ve never put in the effort of looking properly after any bloom or bush that isn’t a potion ingredient.” 

“Fine! Potter was spying on me from the lane. He talked to me brazenly. I realized I needed a taller hedge to ensure I had proper privacy.” Severus huffs defensively, closing his own arms over his chest and wincing inwardly. His right arm isn’t ready yet to move about freely, or be tightly clamped under his left one. Bollingfrog’s cure-all effect on broken bones is way too delicate for Severus’s taste.

“Proper privacy for what? You don’t do anything other than brewing, and it’s not like there’s a long line of intrusive Snape groupies dogging your every step.” 

“I don’t like being disturbed.”

“Harry wished you good morning, Severus. It’s not like he was trying to serenade you from the street, or eye your naked body lasciviously while taking underhanded blackmail pictures!”

“He wouldn’t have been able to do that even if he tried. I have wards against that sort of thing, Minerva.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So what did you need all that privacy for, Severus? What was the bloody point of ‘enhancing’ your hedge?” 

“I wanted to send him a message.”

“Couldn’t you have spoken to him instead?”

“No, that would have defeated my purpose. I wanted to remind him that We. Do. NOT. Speak. To. One. Another.”

“Why not?” Minerva demands, plopping herself down on the bedside chair. “You both have a lot in common.”

Severus googles at her. “That’s an abominable falsehood. Potter and I have nothing in common whatsoever.”

“You’re both half-blood.” 

“So are hundreds of other wizards.”

“You were both raised in the muggle world.”

“Pft! Is that all that you’ve got?”

“Both your parental figures neglected and abused you horribly when you were children.”

Severus grits his teeth. “Don’t go there, Min-min.”

“You were both forced to play the most destructive roles in the war against Voldemort. Both of you loved Albus deeply and were equally manipulated by him. Both of you almost died during the final battle. Both of you excel in Defense Against The Dark Arts, both of you—

“Fine! We may have a few things in common, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re from two different generations and two different Hogwarts’ houses. Moreover, we stand on opposite sides of the public’s definition of the word ‘famous.’ Potter and I are like oil and water. We don’t mix well at all, Min-min, and neither of us is delusional enough to try.”

“Harry is. He wished you good morning through your window and all.”

“Oh, For Salazar’s sak—

“Maybe there are things about you he is especially suited to understand, Severus. And vice-versa.”

“Please, spare me.” 

“Why? The war is over. You’re no longer trying to convince him you’re a Death Eater. You aren’t his professor, either. You can afford to behave like yourself around him now. It’s obvious that Harry respects you very deeply. He’s young, fit, rich, and seems to like you well enough. What more is there to want, you, prat?” 

Severus glares at her, utterly appalled by what she is suggesting. “Are you mad? Potter wouldn’t touch me that way with a barge pole.”

“Why not?”

“Because he hates me, that’s why!”

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s been trying to reach out. Maybe you’ve charmed him without realizing you were doing it. He’s been patrolling your neighborhood for a while now. He’s had plenty of opportunities to see you, Severus. Not Professor Snape, but you. Maybe he is tempted to- 

“Pft! Potter. Tempted. Now I know you’re off your rocker. Have you been chugging Firewhiskey all night long? You’re supposed to wait for Friday and share your stash like a proper Gryffindor instead of gulping it all down on your own.” 

“I’m neither drunk nor delusional. It’s you who is being obtuse and disagreeable, Severus. You’ve got nothing to lose if I’m wrong. Would it really kill you to meet Harry half-way?”

Severus shrugs petulantly. “It might. I’ve no interest in becoming Potter’s agony aunt.”

Minerva shakes her head with fond exasperation. “You’re impossible. Tell me you’ll at least agree to see him if he comes back.”

“He won’t. He’s already offered his explanation and will trust you to relay it to me. Potter’s conscience is now clear. He has no reason to return.”

“Then you won’t lose much by promising me you’ll see him if he comes.” 

Severus stares at her thoughtfully. “Will that get you off my case? No more reaching out to him nonsense? No more vinegary stare of disappointment the next time some gossipy soul tells you that Potter tried to greet me on the street and I callously ignored the poor little lamb?”

“The poor little lamb? Seriously? And you have enough cheek to imply I’ve been chugging Firewhiskey. What potion fumes have you been inhaling?” Minerva demands, aiming for stern but failing to achieve the look when she can’t conceal her half-chocked guffaw.

Severus’s smirk turns bright and delighted upon seeing that playful look back in her eyes. He’s learned to treasure every time they laugh together. They’ve shared enough fears, enough tears, to last them both a lifetime. It’s time they stock up on joy. “Do we have a deal then, pretty lass?” He drawls, using the horribly fake Scottish accent that never fails to make her burst into giggles.

She does laugh. Brightly. Loudly. Lightheartedly. “Yes. We have a deal, cheeky lad. And you better stick to it when Harry shows up. No Slytherin tricks from you, brat.” 

“Potter won’t show, Min-min.”

“He will. And you’ll better be kind. Don’t you dare hurt my little lamb, Severus.”

  



	5. Chapter 5

**  
Chapter 5.**

If there is something that Severus Snape would be willing to say with perfect honesty about Harry James Potter to the entire world at large, is that the brat has terrible timing. Potter has the lack of decency to show up at Hogwarts’s infirmary while Severus is engaged in the most thought-provoking, potion-related discussion he’s ever had with anyone. He’s never even heard about the magical melding that can be achieved between gray scarab beetles and Symphytum Officinale when they are ground together on the third day of every third month of the year until master Bollingfrog mentions the idea to him, and patiently explains the stunning theory that led him to that discovery.

Severus is in awe. He is engaged in their exchange right down to his very toes, and the last thing he wants is to spare a thought for Potter. He is not even remotely interested in interrupting his stimulating discussion with Bollingfrog, or Emille, as the man had urged Severus to call him within two minutes of introducing himself; but Potter, as usual, either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that he is unwelcome. He barges in, charming smile firmly in place, and proceeds to dazzle poor Bollingfrog with his famous scar, his famous hair, and his famous green gaze without so much as a by your leave.

Severus grits his teeth when Bollingfrog rushes to his feet and shakes Potter’s hand with effusive exuberance. Like everyone who hasn’t endured the thankless task of trying to teach the infuriating brat for six frustrating years, Bollingfrog is hopelessly impressed by Potter. The bright smile that has been gracing Severus’s face all morning long wilts upon witnessing his childhood hero’s unwarranted admiration of The Idiotic Brat Of Doom. It’s not like Potter won the war all by himself. He hadn’t even been alive for the first half, for Merlin’s sake!

Bollingfrog introduces himself to Potter, explaining how Severus is being used as a guinea pig for his experimental bone cure, and the Auror has the audacity to interrupt a bona fide eminence in the art of potion creation with a horrified cry: “Experimental?” The Gryffindor's entire body swivels towards Severus, who sits ram-rod straight on one of the two high-backed chairs Minerva has seen fit to furnish his bedside with. The vein on the side of Severus’s temple begins to pulse with anger, but Potter is too busy ignoring propriety, and raking Severus’s scowling form up and down in a rather rude and thorough fashion to notice Severus’s mounting fury. The idiot then proceeds to offend Master Bollingfrog even further by voicing a most ridiculous question: “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Thankfully, because Severus has promised Minerva to treat the brat kindly, and he’d be breaking that promise if he throws the savior out on his ear within five seconds of his arrival, Bollingfrog smiles reassuringly at Potter and bothers to reply to his asinine question before Severus can open his mouth. “Of course it’s not dangerous, Mr. Potter. Healing potions are, by definition, safe to use on the ill. Experimental brews may or may not be as effective as the ones they aim to replace, but they do follow the same basic recipe. Master Snape’s health was never endangered. I assure you.”

Potter chews his lower lip unhappily and ignores Bollingfrog’s amiable demeanor in favor of rudely staring at Severus some more. “But Snape was in a lot of pain when he first woke up. I remember thinking it was odd. I’m no stranger to Skele-Gro myself, and the professor shouldn’t have been in so much discomfort, Mr. Ballinfog.”

“Bollingfrog, Potter.” Severus snarls the very first words he’s said directly to the brat since the final battle. “Furthermore, my companion is not a _mister_ anything. He is a master of his craft, and you shall address him as such.”

“Huh?” Potter has the audacity to look disconcerted, and Severus is further enraged by the gobsmacked look plastered all over the twit’s gormless face.

“Out!”

“Wha— _why_? I haven’t done anything! I haven’t even managed to say hello yet.”

“Are you deaf? I said out, Potter. As in get out of my sight. This instant.”

“Severus, please, I’m certain Mr. Potter meant no disrespect.” Bollingfrog tries to intercede on behalf of the savior, who looks at him in bewilderment. Dawning comprehension finally arrives inside Potter’s minuscule brain as he examines Bollingfrog’s embarrassed features. The Auror makes a distressed sound, rakes frustrated fingertips through his already messy enough hair and pulls so sharply on the short locks at the back of his neck that Severus’s scalp tingles in sympathy. Then Potter takes a deep breath and fixes that famous verdant gaze on Severus, managing to look equally pleading and defiant at once.

“I haven’t disrespected anyone. I was just saying that the experimental potion this man gave you was totally usele—

“Don’t. You. Dare. Finish. That. Sentence, Potter!” Severus hisses, beyond incensed now. He can’t believe the Auror’s cheek. Potter shrinks away from him and lifts both hands, palm out, in a contrite motion of surrender. Severus is in no mood to be appeased, or to act kindly towards an impertinent fool who has so blatantly displayed both his ignorance and lack of manners, promise to Minerva be damned. “Leave. Now.” He says coldly, and Potter has enough sense of self-preservation to listen to him this time.

The Auror utters no more challenging words. Voices no further disrespect towards either Severus himself or his distinctly uncomfortable guest. He looks at Bollingfrog briefly, heroic features awash with crimson-colored shame, but fails to offer the apology flashing across his contrite gaze. Severus watches the silent exchange sternly, feeling like a parent overseeing one naughty sibling refusing to apologize to the other one, and deeply resents having to play such a role. He is no longer a school teacher. He has no interest in disciplining the young. Or teaching manners to the unruly. If he wanted to do so, he’d still be haunting the dungeons of this very institution. Salazar knows Minerva would welcome him back to Hogwarts with open arms.

Potter looks towards Severus next with a wheedling air about him, but whatever emotion is plastered over Severus’s face is enough to make the brat flinch, instead of arguing his case further, and turn towards the exit. Potter’s walk of shame is thankfully short. But the discomfort he leaves behind has broken the excited, friendly atmosphere the potion masters had been enjoying before his arrival. Bollingfrog excuses himself soon afterward, citing a previous engagement, and Severus makes himself rise from his chair and smile blandly as he accepts the man’s handshake in farewell. He watches his childhood hero depart with a heavy heart, wondering if his chance of nurturing the rapport that had been oh-so-cautiously blooming between them before the Auror arrived is now gone forever.

Against his expectations to the contrary, Potter has shown up at Hogwarts. Severus doesn’t share Minerva’s crazy views on the boy’s motivations to do so, but he also can’t figure out the Gryffindor's angle. Severus only knows one thing for certain: Potter ruined his morning. Maybe he’s also destroyed his chances of establishing a cordial, professional relationship, even a friendship, with Master Bollingfrog. Severus has had enough. He’s got no intention whatsoever of giving the savior the time of day from now on.

  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**  
Chapter 6.**

“I’m sorry,” Potter says from one of the bedside chairs when Severus wakes up next. He blinks at the brat sleepily, feeling utterly confused and unprepared to deal with the situation. After about half a minute of disoriented perplexity, his mind is finally cognizant enough to guide his actions. Severus frowns thunderously, completely mortified by the knowledge that Potter has been here, watching him sleep, for Salazar knows how long. Severus doesn’t say a single word, but he turns around in the bed, huddles back into his blanket, and mentally challenges the stupid arsehole to ignore the fact that Severus has just turned his back on him.

“Please. Please, Snape. I’m sorry. You’ve got to believe me.”

Potter is wrong. Oh-so-wrong. Severus doesn’t have to do anything at all. He doesn’t care for the Gryffindor's apology, or the situation he now finds himself in. He’d fallen asleep after lunch out of pure frustration and healing-related exhaustion. He is still tired, hungry, and has a pressing need to use the loo that he’s not going to act upon until the brat leaves the premises. Potter sighs loudly when it becomes evident that Severus doesn’t plan to give him a verbal response, and the rustle of heavy cloth against heavy cloth tells Severus’s straining senses that the Auror is nervous and fidgeting up a storm in his chair. Good. That means Potter is likely to get up and go off in a huff within the next two minutes. Severus sincerely doubts the idiot possesses enough patience to last longer than that.

“I spoke to Hermione. She says your Master Bollingfrog is a pretty big deal. Apparently, that experimental bone cure thing he gave you has been the talk of the potion community for a while now.” Potter says softly, and Severus doesn’t move a muscle. He is not interested in what the brat has learned after the fact. He is not interested in mending bridges either. Potter is a nuisance and a menace who regularly wreaks havoc in Severus’s life. He wants to nip in the bud whatever it is that Potter imagines he’ll achieve by pestering him like this.

“I’ve already apologized to the man. He is nice. We’re good now, Snape. No hard feelings between us at all. In fact, Emille asked me to remind you that the two of you made tentative plans for him to show up here tomorrow afternoon with the data you requested. Apparently, you’re designing a charm for him?”

Potter’s easy-going mention of Bollingfrog’s first name upsets Severus further. He feels the Gryffindor has no right to the privilege after his vile behavior towards the man. Severus twitches under the blankets, their heat a stifling sensation he no longer enjoys. His bladder feels heavy and achy, stretched to its limits in the most uncomfortable way. Severus closes his eyes, takes a deep and surreptitious breath, and mentally urges Potter to leave already.

“I know you’re furious with me. And you have every right to be. I behaved like an idiot, and I offended your guest, but I— I wasn’t trying to be a git. Please. _Please_ , Snape. You’ve got to understand, man. I thought you were dead when I found you in your garden.”

Severus hears something odd in Potter’s voice at that moment. Something chocked and full of an emotion he’s unable to identify. He turns around in the bed once again and stares at the Auror warily. Potter is looking right at him. He’s all tear-bright eyes, wild hair, and hunched shoulders, and Severus doesn’t understand why the idea of his death should affect the Auror so. He frowns, confused, and Potter twitches nervously, tanned fingers drumming an obnoxiously restless pattern on the padded armrest of the chair he’s rigidly perched on.

“You hadn’t recovered from your wounds when Michael and I showed up. McGonagall had to cut our interview short because you were in excruciating pain more than twelve hours after I brought you here. I hadn’t expected that, and I’d been worrying about it. It was instinctive for me to snap at Bollingfrog when he said he’d given you some experimental concoction instead of Skele-Gro.” Potter tries to smile at him then, but the action is so hesitant and weak that Severus wonders why he bothers with it at all. “Hermione says this new stuff will probably save your career. You’ll be able to keep brewing, won’t you?”

Severus doesn’t know why he moves his head in the affirmative. He’d vowed to himself never to willingly interact with Potter just this morning. “Oh, thank Godric!” Potter gasps and his smile of relief is as bright as his apologetic one had been weak. Severus feels as if he’s somehow stumbled into a topsy-turvy world. A dimension where nothing makes sense and Potter has some sort of reasonable grounds to act in a friendly manner towards him. Could Potter have lost his marbles without anybody else noticing it? “I— Nathaniel is driving everyone crazy. I’ve explained to him that you’ll be home in a few days because you’re trying a new medicine and the man in charge of it wants to make sure you’re properly healed before letting you go, but I think he’s worried. He wants to see you. With the Headmistress’s permission, his grandmother has agreed to let me bring him over, provided you’re willing to put up with him for an hour or so.”

Severus can’t help the soft smile that curves his lips at the prospect of seeing his young friend. Objectively, he is aware that Nathaniel is safe and sound too, but he has the instinctive need to make sure this is so. Severus wants to see the child and assure himself that the boy remains his bright and reckless self, despite his ordeal. “I’d like that.” He answers quietly, fully aware that he’s breaking his own vow. He’s giving Potter an opening he wasn’t planning to give him, but then Potter’s offer of bringing Nathaniel to Hogwarts is too tempting to resist. _Tempting_. The word reminds Severus of Minerva’s ludicrous notions, and he scowls for all he’s worth. Potter’s bright grin vanishes at once, and they both stare at one another guardedly as the silence grows uncomfortable.

“Can I bring him in the morning, around ten? You’ll be busy with Emille in the afternoon, and McGonagall already cautioned me not to tire you too much. She wants you to rest while you’re here. Apparently, you don’t look after yourself properly when you’re on your own.”

Severus scowls, at a loss. He doesn’t know what to do with this careful, almost too gentle, version of Potter. The brat is treating him like he’s made out of glass, and Severus doesn’t like it. He’s not the breakable sort. He’s a survivor. And he’s never enjoyed pity either. Potter seems determined to treat him with kindness. It’s entirely possible that Severus isn’t the only one to have fallen afoul of a pesky promise to Minerva. Or maybe Potter feels guilty for arriving almost too late at Severus’s side on the day of the attack. Severus doesn’t know why Potter is behaving like this, and maybe he shouldn’t care about the why of it, bearing in mind how temporary his interaction with Potter is bound to be. He is too tired to analyze the situation further and doesn’t want to get into another pointless argument with Potter today. He also wants to see Nathaniel, so he decides to leave this particular sleeping dragon alone. “Tomorrow at ten sounds good.” Severus agrees, “Now get the hell out of here, Potter.”

Potter chuckles upon hearing the grumpy dismissal and lurches forward, as if to pat Severus’s arm fondly, but freezes mid-motion. Those laughing green eyes widen warily, and the Auror closes his extended fingers into a lose and shaking fist. “I better go,” Potter says gruffly, “Godric knows I’ll mess this up if I stay any longer. Better quit while I’m ahead and all that. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Snape. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Severus replies automatically as Potter stands up. The boy is gone a mere blink later, and Severus sags with unashamed relief against his mound of pillows. Potter is strange. Stranger than he’d ever been as a rebellious child or even an angry teenager. Severus doesn’t know what to make of him. He sighs out loud, shakes his head in utter confusion and, abandoning the bed, heads towards the loo, lost in thought. He hopes Potter isn’t aiming for some sort of survivors-of-the-same-war little rapport. Severus has no interest in living in the past, or in exposing his war-related traumas to another living soul, let alone Potter. There are Magi-therapists for that sort of thing. Or caring friends, lovers, and family members if one is fortunate enough to have those. Potter is fortunate enough. The Gryffindor shouldn’t have any problem whatsoever filling those roles with beautiful, nurturing, well-rounded people. Severus often wishes he could be equally blessed. He isn’t. He thinks most Magi-therapists are outright crooks. His family members were right bastards even when they were alive, and he hasn’t had a lover in so long that he’s probably grown inch-thick spiderwebs down there. He has plenty of friends, though, a naughty little brat to steer into sorting Slytherin, and a fulfilling career. That’s good enough for him. It’s more than he’d ever expected to have if he made it through the war.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7.**

Seeing Nathaniel’s face awash with wonder as he stares, wide-eyed, around the infirmary reminds Severus of the only thing he honestly loved about teaching at Hogwarts. There aren’t many things that can compare to the amazed look on the first years' faces as they see the castle for the very first time. Nathaniel is young, impressionable, and so thoroughly unafraid of expressing his emotions that Severus finds himself smiling from ear to ear as he witnesses anew the magical moment when a young wizard falls madly in love with Hogwarts.

“Evirithin is so Huuuuuuggge, Master Snape,” The boy gasps bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as he dangles from Potter’s hand.

“Of course it’s huge. It’s Hogwarts.” Severus agrees. He is still perched on the windowsill bench from where he’d been observing his visitors’ slow progression across the castle’s front lawn. “Did you like the boar gates, Nathaniel?”

Severus smirks at Potter’s heartfelt groan. The infirmary is too far away for Severus to know precisely what transpired so far down the path, but he’d watched their figures stand at the gates for ages. Severus knows that boars happen to be Nathaniel’s favorite animal, a fact he’s willing to bet a bag full of galleons that Potter hadn’t been aware of before this morning.

“They’re so cool! The boars at the top have wings, Master Snape.” Nathaniel squeals, darting across the room towards him as soon as Potter releases his hand. “And they move!” Nathaniel adds, reaching the base of the window seat and lifting up his little arms expectantly, silently demanding that Severus hoist him up into the faded gray cushions even as he continues babbling “The left one wiggled its snout at me like this. Do you think it was trying to say hello?”

Severus lifts the little miscreant onto the cushions, attempts to keep a straight face while watching solemnly as Nathaniel scrunches his tiny nose left and right, and taps a long finger thoughtfully against his lips in an attempt to hide his amused smile. “Let me think. Are you certain the one who moved so was on the left? That’s Brigid, Nathaniel. She’s the shy one of the pair. Now Moccus, the one on the right, is a bold and cheeky rascal. I can very well imagine him trying to make funny faces at you.”

Nathaniel’s features grow as delighted as Potter’s grow puzzled. “They have names?” both of them ask at the same time.

“Yes, they do. They are also very proud and very old. Legend says they once guarded a temple that stood on the island that’s in the middle of the Black Lake. The founders came here because they were attracted to the power that flowed from the old temple ruins. Brigid and Moccus were the only things still standing, and the founders of Hogwarts offered to infuse them with enough magic to allow them to interact with the wards of the school if they accepted the job of making sure the castle would never fall like the temple they’d guarded had.” Severus explains, keeping his attention on the child bouncing beside him while doing his best to ignore the adult man staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head.

“That’s so awe-so-meeee!” Nathaniel squeals, eyes agog and that toothless grin that Severus finds so endearing flashing as brightly as a ray of sunshine. “Boars are cool. Aren’t they, Master Snape? Grandma says they’re short and fat, but I like them the best anyway. Kneazles and crups are for babies. And girls. And Grandmas. I didn’t know there are boars with wings. They’re bri-di-ant! I’m gonna paint two of them on ma’ door at home. They’ll be this big. And orange. Orange boars are the best. I’ll ask them to protect my room, so it never falls ei’er.” Severus hums, doing his best to look appropriately impressed by the size that Nathaniel’s outstretched arms attribute to his latest art project and wonders, not for the first time, how his poor grandmother manages to cope with the boy’s lively nature.

“They’ll be a sight to behold, I’m sure.” He says solemnly. Potter snorts from the spot he’s claimed, leaning against the foot of Severus’s bed. Severus stares unblinkingly at him over Nathaniel’s head, hoping the Gryffindor takes the hint and leaves him alone with his young visitor. Potter, as usual, doesn’t catch the subtext in the slightest. Or catches it but doesn’t care to follow where it leads. He shrugs casually and slouches unbecomingly against the utilitarian metal frame of the infirmary’s bed, Severus grits his teeth.

“Can you tell Grandma not to Evinisco my boars, please?”

“It’s Evanesco, Nathaniel.” Severus corrects patiently, deciding to ignore Potter altogether.

“E-va-nes-co.” The boy repeats dutifully, before trying to secure Severus’s help against the dreaded evils of grandmotherly cleaning spells once more. “You’ve got to tell her to leave my boars alone, Master Snape. Grandma will listen to you. She likes you. I’m gonna help her bake special cookies for you when you come home. But you need to ethplain to her that my boars can’t guard my room if she shoos them away.”

“Just because you don’t see them it doesn’t mean they’re gone, young man. I’d dare say your boars will protect you better if they’re invisible.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Your rivals won’t know they’re there, will they?”

“Oh! Why aren’t Hofwarf’s boars invisible then?”

“Because they’re not there only to protect the school. They’re meant to welcome the children too. And to look out over the path that leads to Hogsmeade, so they can make sure there’s no danger coming up the road.”

“I don’t have a road coming to my bedroom, and grandma is the one who welcomes all my friends when they visit,” Nathaniel says.

“Maybe you don’t need bedroom guardians, then.”

“Of course I do.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Nathaniel-

“Bryce Hillen wouldn’t be so mean to me if I had super-magical guardian boars.”

Severus sighs, and is in the process of opening his mouth to address the issue when Potter pipes up. “Bryce Hillen? The kid from number 17, Sunlit Lane?”

“Yeah,” Nathaniel answers glumly, and Severus could happily murder the Auror for butting his thick, nosy head into this part of the conversation.

“Don’t you have anything better to do, Potter?” He demands pointedly, but the man ignores him regally.

“What’s he done to you, mate? And why haven’t you reported him? Making sure nobody is mean to anybody else is sort of my job.” Potter says to the child softly enough. His verdant gaze is carefully blank and non-judgmental, but Severus shoots him the death glare to end all death glares anyway when the idiot attempts to approach the window seat. Nathaniel shrinks against Severus’s side. Tiny pale face seeking refuge among the soft folds of the dark pajama shirt he is wearing. Severus’s left hand rises at once, and his long fingers start carding through the boy’s unruly mass of soft curls in a soothing, protective, motion.

“Nothing. Hillen’s done nothing to me.” Nathaniel whispers aloud, still hiding his face against Severus’s side. Potter frowns, watches the boy with impotent frustration, and looks for all intents and purposes as if he’s a breath away from crying himself. Or flouncing off in a rage-fueled mission to find young Mr. Hillen and give him a piece of his mind. Severus stares steadily at Potter when the Auror's gaze seeks his own. This isn't the time for showy heroics. There isn’t much Potter can do to improve Nathaniel’s situation right now. The Gryffindor looks shocked and lost at the same time, and Severus wonders how is it possible for an Auror, for the defeater of Voldemort, to have gone through an abusive childhood himself, to have gone through a war, and still remain naive enough to honestly believe there are no nasty bullies left in his bright world.

“You don’t need a magical guardian boar to deal with Mr. Hillen, Nathaniel. We’ve talked about this. Have we not?” Severus points out quietly, and his stomach falls to the very tips of his toes when he hears the quiet little sniffle the boy hasn’t yet grown skilled enough to hide.

“But he hates me. And he’s huuugggee. He kicked me hard on the knee the other day.”

“He did _what_?” Potter roars, Bryce is a good three years older than Nathaniel, and twice his size as well. Nathaniel flinches upon hearing Potter’s tone, and Severus puts his foot down. He won’t have the boy cowering in fear when there’s nothing for him to be afraid of for miles on end.

“Kindly leave the premises if you’ve forgotten the fine art of controlling your temper, Auror Potter. You’re causing more harm than good.”

Potter flinches at Severus’s cold tone, but takes a deep breath and visibly tries to calm himself when his gaze darts toward Nathaniel’s shaking form. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. I promise, Snape. Please, don’t throw me out.”

Severus nods sharply, looks down towards Nathaniel’s unruly curls, and promptly forgets all about the Auror. He hates seeing bright little kids like this; because it’s usually the bright ones that attract the ire of older bullies. It’s the same old dance in every generation, this constant tension between brute force and resourceful nature. In an ideal world, one should be there to protect and even nurture the other, but children often fail to see that society can’t be truly strong without innovation. The pitfalls of the real world are too sophisticated to be defeated by anyone’s bare fists. More often than not, sharp wit is the weapon of choice of genuinely successful people.

“Don’t cower, Nathaniel. It’s unbecoming.” Severus says sternly and catches Potter’s outraged expression from the corner of his eye. Nathaniel, though, is used to Severus’s usual brusqueness. He is a fierce little soul who reacts with the predictable pride of a survivor. Severus doesn’t care what Minerva thinks. This kid is meant for Slytherin.

“I’m not co-we-ring,” the boy grumbles, clearly stung, but he uncurls his spine, pulls a hair-breadth away from Severus’s side and stares up at him with the smallest smidgen of his usual fire.

“You could have fooled me.”

“I’m. Not. Co-we-ring. Cowering is for rats.”

Severus raises one eyebrow, wondering where that ridiculous pearl of wisdom comes from. He’s got the bad feeling that it comes straight from Bryce Hillen’s twisted little brain. “Rats don’t cower at all. They flee, Nathaniel. Like most clever animals do when they’re alone and facing a bigger predator.”

“Rats are cowardly, then.”

“Are they? What’s so wrong about choosing to retreat so you can fight another day? Seeking safety in numbers is not cowardly, it’s smart. A single rat can not defeat a kneazle, but two hundred of them will make it run away.”

“I don’t have two hundred friends. I’ve only got five. And they don’t want to help me fight Hillen. They’re too scared,” Nathaniel mumbles mulishly, and Severus can’t help the smile that curls his thin lips upward when the boy crosses his little arms in front of his chest in a thoroughly frustrated fashion.

“You don’t need two hundred friends. You don’t even need the help of the five friends you have to defend yourself.”

“Of course I do!”

“No. You don’t. You’re not a rat, and young Mr. Hillen is not a kneazle. You are a wizard, Nathaniel, and if you have magic, it doesn’t matter how big your opponent is. A well-placed spell will take care of that. You just have to know which one to use.”

“I don’t have a wand ei’er. I’m too little. Grandma says that will take years and years.”

“You don’t need a wand. You have _magic_. There are other ways to spell things.”

“Like potions?” Nathaniel brightens at once. He’s been thoroughly fascinated with the craft ever since Severus caught him playing around with a bunch of weeds he’d picked up from the woods, and took five minutes to show him how to mix a simple orange tincture by combining three of them with a bit of boiling water. Nathaniel has been obsessed with the color orange ever since.

“I was thinking about runes since you like drawing so much, but most potions for beginners can be brewed without a wand, so I suppose you can use them too.”

“I like potions.”

“I know. I could teach you one or two if your grandmother allows it. I’ll also teach you how to draw simple protection runes if you’re interested.”

“You’ll teach me more potions? And magic painting?” Nathaniel beams with delight, bouncing up and down on his bum in his excitement. “I learn very fast, Master Snape. I can make the e-ca-lip-tus bark tincture you showed me on ma’ own if grandma boils my water.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You have?”

“It’s been hard to miss,” Severus says dryly. ”Many things have suddenly turned orange in Sunlit Lane, Mr. Nothbury.”

“I like orange. Orange is cool. And I wanna be the besterest potion maker ever, Master Snape. I’m gonna have a huge cauldron just like yours, and I’ll make yummy, orange stuff that’s cool and helps people get well when they’re sick and things. I want to be like you when I grow up.”

“Please don’t,” Severus mutters under his breath, he’s not the best role model out there, and he’d rather Nathaniel grows up to lead a successful life than end up living one that’s only a few degrees shy of complete solitude and thinly-veiled public scorn.

“Snape-

Potter’s attempt at interrupting his conversation with Nathaniel is hijacked by Poppy, who bustles in, hovering potion tray in her wake, and demands they let her patient rest. The boy stares at her, and her tray of multicolored potions in awe, “You’re the one who made Master Snape all better?” he demands hoarsely and Severus isn’t blind enough to miss the barely-there seed of Nathaniel’s latest fascination as it takes root in the rich soil of the child’s fertile imagination.

“I didn’t do it on my own.” Poppy answers humbly, moving forward to hand Severus’s scheduled dose of the boil-blood antidote.

“But you did some of it?”

“Yes. I look after everyone who gets sick at Hogwarts.”

“Master Snape didn’t get sick at Hogwarts.” Nathaniel points out in that simple, childish, approach to logic that most adults find confounding.

“Well, Severus worked here for a very long time. He’s one of us. That’s why Harry brought him here instead of taking him to St. Mungo’s. He knew Master Snape would prefer to come home to recover.”

“Ah!” Nathaniel nods in understanding, and Severus looks towards a Harry Potter who has flushed to the very tips of his ears and is currently staring at Poppy with wide-eyed disbelief. The Auror looks both startled and intensely uncomfortable, and Severus realizes for the first time that there may be a far more generous explanation for Potter’s decision to bring him to Hogwarts than Severus had initially assumed. He’d supposed the Auror had brought him here to keep the fairy attack out of the press. There aren’t many places in magical Britain that can treat the victim of a brutal magical attack in a hush-hush manner, after all. Now he wonders if Potter spared a single thought for his own reputation -or the Ministry’s- at all when he’d Apparated here with Severus in tow. It’s not hard at all to imagine the Savior reacting instinctively instead of politically when confronted with a severely injured former member of the Order Of The Phoenix. Potter once was as much a Dumbledore’s man as Severus himself, and war-time instincts are a bitch to ignore.

Poppy hands him another vial, and Severus downs it with a quick, unhappy grunt. He hates the taste of Curcumin, but its anti-inflammatory properties are unmatched, so he has to put up with it. Potter steps close enough to pull a reluctant Nathaniel off the window seat’s cushion and they both watch Severus drink the last vile concoction with slightly lost looks. Poppy casts a swift diagnostic spell on him before Severus has enough time to return the last vial to her hovering tray. The magic’s pull on his senses feels invasive enough for Severus to throw an outraged glare her way.

“That’s so cooool!” Nathaniel’s wide-eyed gasp probably saves the Mediwitch from a Snapely Supreme Sharp Snap Special, and she has the cheek to smile smugly at Severus even as he turns to face the still babbling boy. “Is that your magic, Master Snape? I like it. What’s that brownish lump back there? It looks a lot like Wisp, doesn’t it? Or it would if Wisp wasn’t a creepy-looking toad. I like toa—

“And that’s our cue to leave, I think.” Potter interrupts Nathaniel’s ramblings, tickling him slightly on the belly to keep the boy distracted and murmurs in explanation, “You look tired, Snape. I think Madame Pomfrey is right. We should let you rest a bit. Emille will be here in a few hours, and I’m sure you want to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for that meeting.”

Poppy stares at Potter gratefully. “That’s right, Harry. Severus needs to rest, and he’s not likely to do it while your companion is here to entertain him. I bet Mr. Nothbury’s grandmother is impatiently waiting for his return anyway. It’s almost lunchtime already.”

“We’ll go then. Say goodbye, Nathaniel.” Potter prompts firmly, and the boy waves in farewell with a flattering lack of enthusiasm at the idea of leaving.

“Bye, bye, Master Snape. You’ve got to come home soon. Playing outside has been boring without you. We’ll have a party when you come back. There will be tea and loads of cookies. Grandma likes the boring ones that taste like nothing, but I’ll tell her you like the ones with cranberry bits on them. I promise. I’ll make them ma’self, and they’ll be bri-di-ant! You’re gonna like them the best.”

“I look forward to them, Mr. Nothbury,” Severus says solemnly.

“Goodbye, professor,” Potter butts in softly, and Severus turns toward him with a frown.

“I’m no longer a professor, Auror Potter.”

“Oh, you are, Snape. You definitely are. I have the feeling you always will be. You’re just the sort of professor who likes to handpick his students.” Potter points out quietly and leaves before Severus can come up with an appropriate response.

“That last quip was odd, even for Harry. Didn’t you think so, Severus?” Poppy asks, blinking at Potter’s retreating back in confusion.

Severus doesn’t honestly know what to think, so he takes refuge in the task of returning to bed to avoid having to respond to her comment. It stays with him nevertheless. Potter’s actions are out of character, and it’s not just Severus’s imagination telling him so. Poppy has noticed it too. Now Severus has two options: either he can try to figure out what’s wrong with the idiot or he can overlook Potter’s odd behavior altogether. Severus is inclined to ignore the brat. Potter‘s puzzling mood-swings are no longer his problem, and it’s not like they’ll have much to do with one another once Severus returns home. Unfortunately for himself, Severus is beginning to feel perversely intrigued by the abnormality of it all. Potter has never treated him kindly before. The savior has never offered him a single apology for any of his past misdeeds either, and they’d been so many of those that Severus gave up keeping count a long time ago.

In the last two days, Potter has not only apologized to Severus over his treatment of Bollingfrog, but he’s brought Nathaniel to visit him as a peace offering of sorts. Maybe Potter has outgrown their life-long feud and is trying to lay the groundwork to call a truce between them. That would explain all the uncalled for attempts to visit Severus recently and that shocking greeting through the kitchen window.

Severus can’t honestly say that the idea of a truce is unwelcome. He is tired of battles too, and his antagonistic relationship with Potter doesn’t serve a single purpose. He’ll have to think about it some more. Maybe he should return his hedge to its former length when he goes home. Give the brat an unequivocal sign that he’s been heard, and his offer has been carefully considered and accepted. They’re both all right now. They’ve survived. It’s time to prove they can coexist side by side without colliding. They can learn to ignore each other in disinterest, instead of hatred.


	8. Chapter 8

**  
** **Chapter 8.**

Severus struggles with the enforced inactivity that is part and parcel of his stay at Hogwarts’s infirmary for the next two days. His meeting with Emille had been both enlightening and reassuring, but the glow it left him with faded overnight. Severus has enough data notebooks to bore ten dedicated goblins to tears. Severus is neither a goblin nor a particularly firm believer of the theory that charm-creation is the result of hour upon hour of studious data analysis. Magic follows straightforward rules. Intent is king in charm work, and no herculean ingestion of result table after result table will tell a spellcrafter worth his salt what the intention of a new charm should be if he can’t glimpse the purpose of it from the start.

Severus has no trouble at all glimpsing the purpose of the spell Emille needs him to craft, but he’s wandless, and therefore stuck working with mere theories until he can get his hands on a new stick. The wait is driving him mad. He’s always been hands-on with his special projects; and although he is perfectly capable of exercising patience Severus is only stuck at Hogwarts because Emille is contractually obligated to offer a full week of round the clock medical supervision to every member of the public he treats with his developing potion as part of the protocol for the brew’s human trials. Severus is perfectly healthy otherwise and growing slowly mad with boredom.

Severus is not allowed to venture outside the confines of the infirmary’s staff ward. Minerva, worried that his current lack of a wand puts him at risk of becoming the unintended recipient of carelessly cast magic, has forbidden him from leaving his sick room. Moreover, being wandless keeps Severus from entertaining himself by brewing the complex mixtures the infirmary is in perpetual need of restocking, assisting his ex-colleagues with their classes or even guest lecturing a small seminar or two either in the field of Potions, Charm Creation or DADA, thus condemning Severus to a most odious and mind-numbing estate of idleness.

Draco writes to him once but doesn’t come to visit. The boy is wary of Hogwarts, just like most Slytherin students of his generation are. Halfway through Severus’s never-ending week, Pansy and Daphne come bearing oodles of grace and pureblood elegance, a large box of Severus’s favorite exploding bonbons, and the lofty ambition to keep him entertained for several hours with the aid of a humongous arsenal of hilarious gossip.

It’s Daphne, whose father happens to be one of the few Slytherin patriarchs to have retained his close ties to the Ministry, postwar, the one who takes it upon herself to enlighten Severus as to what, exactly, is going on in Potter’s professional life just as the tea Severus requests from the house elves finally arrives. According to his ex-student, someone high in the Ministry’s hierarchy has it indeed for Potter, but the situation is neither as dire nor as treacherous in spirit as Severus had presumed. For the small price of recounting the nitty-gritty of his ridiculous ‘interview’ with Prickard, Severus becomes acquainted with the ins and outs of the somewhat puzzling little feud that seems to have developed over the past year between Harry Potter and John Dawlish.

It turns out that assigning Potter to the Safe Neighborhood Program hadn’t been as insupportable a patronizing act of babysitting the savior on the part of the Ministry as Severus had assumed. According to Daphne’s father, a number of high ranking Ministry officials attended a closed-door meeting on the eve of Potter’s graduation from the Auror Academy. It was decided there that giving the savior the least glamorous assignment they could think of for the first six months of his career, would grant the Ministry enough moral high ground to deny the future rumors of blatant favoritism that would indubitably arise as soon as they managed to bring Potter back into the fold and proceeded to pamper him stupid. Thus Weasley was given from the start the prestigious job Potter was denied, while the savior was relegated to prowling up and down Sunlit Lane for half a year.

Potter took the slight somewhat philosophically, Granger was positively incensed, and Weasley was the happiest of the lot. Weasley ended up having to explain to the other two that the people who ran the Ministry probably didn’t have plans to make him Head Auror as soon as humanly possible or push him through hook or crook into running for Minister of Magic the moment he hit a traditionally ‘mature’ age bracket. Long story short, Potter took over Sunlit Lane’s beat. Six months passed in utterly boring peace and, a mere week before the Savior's first assignment would be officially over, the Ministry offered him a Junior Detective Auror position in Dawlish’s team which, bearing in mind that John Dawlish created, and still runs, the only Special Hexes And Battlemages team in the Ministry’s payroll, is an astonishingly prestigious opportunity to waste on a recently graduated Auror.

Shockingly, Potter failed to break out in delighted glee at the generous offer and, in a move that puzzled everyone involved, requested to be granted a six-month extension on his first assignment citing the ‘peaceful’ nature of the job. Cue in instant Ministry higher-ups conviction that Potter suffers a more severe form of war-related PTSD than the rest of us, mortals. They decided that granting the savior his extension would serve two purposes at once: it’d further cement in the public’s mind the idea that the Ministry doesn’t favor Potter, and give the boy hero six extra months of respite to heal after the end of the war.

“So, what happened then?” Severus asks with a frown. Potter has been on his neighborhood’s beat for two years already. It’s obvious that the brat didn’t accept the next cushy assignment either, but Severus can’t imagine how he managed to convince the Ministry’s top brass to let their bright plans for his future go. Potter isn’t a random Junior Auror. He’s a symbol of peace, of prosperity, to everyone in the Wizarding World. Merlin knows the Ministry needs to have that sort of symbol firmly working on their side after the horrible mess Cornelius Fudge made of his frankly inept tenure.

Shacklebolt is a savvy man. He’s dealt with the government's corruption. Overseen the slow and painful process of replacing the stubborn old dinosaurs with younger and more enthusiastic characters, and has passed several laws aimed at encouraging equality and prosperity for a wide swath of the general population in the last few years. Shacklebolt isn’t Potter though, and he never will be. There are things Harry Potter can achieve as a Minister of Magic that are just not possible for any other man out there. Severus doesn’t think anyone currently serving in politics would be willing to shelve those sorts of dreams for any reason whatsoever.

“Well, I heard from Terry Boot, who heard it from Cho Chang, who heard it from Hannah Abbot, who heard it from Reginald Cattermole, who heard it directly from Percy Weasley’s mouth that, ten months into the job, Potter made an official request to be permanently assigned to the Sunlit Lane beat,” Pansy tells him.

Daphne swallows the small sip of tea she’d taken and places her teacup delicately on its saucer with a slight nod of agreement. “That’s right. Potter’s desire to become a permanent fixture in the Safe Neighborhood Program came as a shock to everyone. Well, everyone except his childhood cohorts. I heard from Greg, who heard it from Lavender Brown, who heard it from Seamus Finnigan, who heard it from Angelina Weasley, nee Johnson, who heard it from Ronald Weasley himself that Potter fell madly in love with some motherly sort. The Boy Who Lived won’t accept any assignment that could potentially take him away from home on a regular basis, and he won’t accept any job that could psychically endanger him either. Apparently, Potter’s sweetheart is some sort of peace-loving maniac.”

“Potter fell madly in love with a motherly, peace-loving maniac,” Severus repeats that statement while staring, utterly dumbfounded, at Daphne’s amused expression.

“I know. It’s bonkers, right? This sort of thing never happens to us. Leave it to the Gryffindors to finally produce practically perfect Minister of Magic material, and lose their chance at changing the Wizarding World for the better because their chosen hero is too dumb to realize that he can fall madly in love and stay on task at the same time.”

“So what, is Dawlish in love with Potter’s woman too, and they’re feuding about it? I thought the man was married to the German bint who runs the trendy cafe in the corner of Vertical Alley.”

“Oh, no. Dawlish couldn’t care less about Potter’s paramour, Severus. Dawlish is pissed off that Potter won’t join his task force. He’s offered him the position three times already, and when Potter kept refusing it, Dawlish went as far as to invent some sort of desk-bound consultant job. Potter turned that down too. Robbards tried to intervene then. He pulled rank and ordered Potter to join the special task force or else. Daddy says that Potter went ballistic. He told the head Auror to get stuffed, dropped his badge on the desk between them, and walked right out of the Ministry.”

“Potter walked out on _Robbards_?” Severus gapes, thoroughly appalled at the news. “How on Earth did they manage to keep that out of the press?”

“Well, there was a lot of bowing and scraping after Potter.” Pansy butted in. “Lisa Turpin, who happens to be Robbards’ latest secretary, told me that Potter insisted he wouldn’t return unless they guaranteed that he could stay at Sunlit Lane. They had to assign him the beat officially before he even agreed to take back his badge. Dawlish was positively mortified and Robbards even more so.”

“That’s true.” Daphne agrees, leaning forward in her chair and lowering her voice, in a subtle attempt to underline the confidential nature of the information she’s about to share, ”Daddy says the members of the upper cabinet have been frothing at the mouth for months. They don’t have a hope in hell of grooming Potter into the next Minister for Magic unless he serves at least two years in a high ranking position in the field of law and order, which they can’t give him if the idiot insists on staying in the Safe Neighborhood Program. Rumor has it they aim to pin a minor misdemeanor on Potter, so they can force him into a desk job for a while and then push him up the Ministry’s ladder from there.”

“I see. I’m afraid I may have ruined their best chance to get at Potter then.” Severus points out quietly, leaning against the backrest of his chair, and wondering how he feels about that.

“Pft!” Pansy snorts delicately. “They’ll find a way to wrestle Potter into submission in the end. The poor bastard doesn’t have a hope in hell of escaping their greedy little clutches. I wonder how that woman of his will react when she learns she has the ear of the future Minister of Magic. She’s about to become the most powerful female in Wizarding Britain.”

“Hmmm. I suppose that’s true. Do we know her at all?” Severus asks curiously, “She can’t pose too much of a threat against former Slytherins if she’s such a rabid pacifist, but it wouldn’t hurt to court her good graces.”

“The words rabid and pacifist shouldn’t make so much sense when uttered together, but they do. Don’t they?” Daphne shudders delicately. “I agree with you, Severus. Buttering up Potter’s woman may be our only chance to ensure someone is in our corner when the Savior makes it to the top. He’s not a fan of Slytherins.”

“That’d be a hell of a lot easier to achieve if someone knew her name,” Pansy grumbles.

“Potter is keeping her in the shadows?” Severus inquires, startled. “Isn’t that a bit strange? You implied that they'd been together for over a year.”

“Maybe she’s as ugly as a Thestral,” Pansy laughs, uncharitably delighted at the prospect. “Or dumber than a garden gnome. Maybe Potter’s girl is a muggle who can’t set foot in the Wizarding World. Wouldn’t that be par for the course for the savior?”

“As amusing as that would be, Pans, I don’t think Potter is dating a muggle. Daddy would know if he was. I can’t see the Ministry refusing to relax the Statue of Secrecy rules for Potter’s muggle lover. They’d lose him altogether otherwise.”

“Well, if she’s not a muggle then who the hell is she? She can’t be a Gryffindor from his year. They’re all either paired up or openly unattached. Lovegood is dating Scamander’s grandson. I’d imagine a Huffy girl would fit the motherly, peace-loving profile, but they all paired up with fellow Huffies when the entire lot was like seven or something. Isn’t it weird how future Hufflepuffs feel drawn to one another? I’ve never been able to understand that.”

Severus snorts, and Daphne laughs outright. Pansy shrugs off their amusement and selects a tiny cucumber sandwich from the platter that accompanied their tea. “It doesn’t make sense for Potter to go to those lengths for a girl he’s unwilling to show off.” Severus points out. “There’s something we’re not seeing.”

“They’ve kept the affair out of the papers too. I mean, nobody outside Potter’s inner circle seems to know the man is taken. Everything is hush-hush about it. There has been no big announcement. No official social presentation. Not even a whisper to imply that Potter’s off the market.”

“Maybe he isn’t, Daphne.” Severus conjectures. “Maybe there’s no girl at all, and Potter is simply tired of fighting evil-wizards. Alternatively, maybe there was a girl, but they broke off, and now he’s trying to lay low.”

“That doesn’t explain why Potter is still sticking to his middle-aged married man demands.” Pansy rejects the possibility Severus just outlined with a firm shake of her head. “No. There must be a girl. And she is skittish as fuck if Potter is trying so hard to keep her out of the limelight.”

“Language, please, Pansy. Your mother will poison my tea the next time she invites me over if she finds out I’m letting you speak thus in my presence.” Severus admonishes her and shakes his head in resigned defeat when she shrugs it off.

“What Mummy doesn’t know won’t hurt her, Severus. I won’t tell if you don’t. And neither will Daphne, so your tea should be safe enough. Now, where was I before you interrupted me so rudely? Ah, yes, Potter has attended every official ball and award ceremony on his own for ages. He used to go to those with Ginevra Weasley. Or Lovegood. Or whichever one of the Patil sisters was free that evening. However, Potter hasn’t taken a girl to a party in over a year. I’m telling you, the man is taken all right. He’s gone from trouble-free bachelor to faithful partner without anyone being the wiser.”

“But someone would have seen them together, Pans. It’s simply impossible for Potter to prance up and down Diagon Alley, shiny new paramour in tow, without attracting the immediate and riveted attention of every journalist alive.”

“It wouldn’t be if they were using Poly-juice.” Severus butts in. “I know for a fact that Hermione Granger is an old hat at making the potion. Potter and his chit could have been masquerading as every Weasley couple in existence for months on end without raising a single eyebrow.”

“That’d work if a bunch of unmitigated Gryffindors had enough brainpower to come up with the idea. However, let’s get real here for a moment: what are the chances that they did? I’m Slytherin, and I didn’t. Would you have, Daphne?”

“I don’t think so. No. That sort of plotting doesn’t come naturally to most. You’re a genius among geniuses, Severus. And the Weasleys may be clever indeed, but they aren’t _you_.”

“I don’t know what to think then.” He says quietly.

“Welcome to the club, Proffessor.” The girls laugh, and their conversation moves on from Potter’s puzzling love life to Draco’s recent fascination with cursed baroque timepieces, which is a topic Severus finds far less confusing, and a hell of a lot more interesting.  


**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

**  
Chapter 9.**

The evening after the girls' visit, Severus is listlessly playing chess against the charmed board for the 12th time in a row when Potter shows up. Severus is so bored by now that the brat’s usually unwelcome presence feels like a gift from the heavens, so he straightens up in his chair and attempts a welcoming smile that must fail its purpose entirely because Potter comes to a standstill and looks ready to turn tail and bolt as soon as he spots it.

“Er-

‘ _Dear God,’_ Severus disparages to himself, _‘How have I fallen so low that this is the best I can expect in terms of entertainment?’_

“Please tell me you’re capable of holding a conversation, Potter.” He snaps, so disappointed by his dismal lack of prospects in that arena that he can’t help the sharpness of his tone. The Auror flinches where he stands and acquires a thoroughly puzzling embarrassed blush between one blink and the next. Severus frowns. Potter squeaks like a startled chicken and, hurrying gracelessly across the room, plops himself on the chair opposite Severus’s as if he’s afraid someone else might steal it.

“Of course I can chat. I just wasn’t expecting you’d want to.” Potter huffs, slouching unbecomingly against the backrest of his chair. Severus grits his teeth.

“At this point, I’d engage in conversation with the Whomping Willow itself if I thought it capable of uttering simple monosyllables in response to basic questions.”

Potter offers him a hard, bitter smile upon hearing that. “Wow. You know exactly how to charm a bloke into a spot of brainy discussion, don’t you, Snape? I now feel inexplicably inclined to sit here and spend the next half hour ‘uttering simple monosyllables in response to basic questions’ so go ahead, ask me something so easy even a 30-year-old tree could understand it.”

Severus blinks, honestly disconcerted by Potter’s disproportionate reaction to what was, in all honesty, merely a poorly constructed reference to Severus’s own boredom. “Apologies.” He offers stiffly. “It was not my intention to cast aspersions on the quality of your communication skills, Auror Potter.” The brat is rude enough to snort and stare at him unblinkingly, thin eyebrow raising across his famously marred forehead in a challenging gesture that could have been stolen directly from Severus’s repertoire. “Fine! I’m bored out of my mind, and I failed to convey that sentiment in the spirit I intended. Are you happy now, Potter?”

The Auror sighs, shakes his head in what looks like defeat and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _‘take what you can get, you, fucking idiot’_ under his breath. Then Potter takes a deep breath, sits up straighter in his chair and, shockingly, brushes the entire incident aside. “Nathaniel painted a ginormous winged boar and hung it on his grandmother’s garden gate. I had to cast Impervious on the thing yesterday when it started drizzling. He is determined to keep it there. He’s calling it Mr. Wimby.”

Severus chuckles, feeling immediately relaxed by Potter’s generous choice in conversational topic. “Is it orange?” he asks, amused, and can’t help but shake his head in fond exasperation when the Gryffindor confirms his suspicions.

“I swear its so fucking bright its Neon. I haven’t seen it after five, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it can glow in the dark. It’s hideous.”

“Gargoyles aren’t supposed to be pretty, Potter.”

“This isn’t a gargoyle. It’s a five-year old’s drawing. Shouldn’t it be featuring cute things like lazy afternoon broom-rides, stick figures, or Beedle the Bard’s characters? That’s the sort of stuff Victoire likes to paint. The two of them are about the same age.”

“Victoire?” Severus inquires delicately, wondering if it is at all possible that Potter’s motherly girl has already saddled the Wizarding World’s Savior with his own little brat.

“Bill’s eldest. She’s as cute as a button, but a bit crazy about unicorns and things.”

“I see.”

An awkward silence settles between them. Severus isn’t sure he wants to break it. He can’t help the thought that Potter shouldn’t be here. They have nothing in common, and forcing themselves to go through the charade of attempting civility seems rather pointless to him. Potter obviously disagrees, for he suddenly lurches forward and blurts out rather desperately: “How did Emille’s visit go? He was so very excited about working with you.”

Severus stares at Potter for a long while before answering. On the one hand, he’s bored enough to be tempted to share a few details here and there to keep Potter around for a little while longer, on the other hand— This man isn’t made to take -or offer- random one-offs. It is entirely possible that Potter would see the smallest thawing in Severus’s current policy of zero-tolerance towards Savior-related friendly overtures as tacit permission to start bombarding him with friendly ‘top o’ the mornings’ through his kitchen window. Severus has only just started toying with the idea of encouraging mutual disinterest instead of outright hatred, but that doesn’t mean he is willing to venture down the path of actual fraternization. It certainly feels too soon to entertain such thoughts. They haven’t even tried the disinterested part yet.

“It went as well as can be expected.” Severus offers a non-committal answer in the end and panics a bit when Potter frowns, obviously disappointed.

“I see.”

The pesky awkward silence returns with a vengeance, settling between them like a line drawn in the sand. Severus looks at the floor forlornly, wondering why Potter has to be so bloody greedy all the time. Why can’t the idiot be a little more polished, a little less needy? Why doesn’t he understand that life is often built of moments that mean nothing? That not every exchange has to survive past the here and now?

“Listen, Snape, I can go if you don’t want me here. I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing, Potter.”

“I’m not helping you relax either. You’re more wound up now than you were when I first walked in.”

“I fail to see the logic behind your expectations. We hardly know one another other. I’m not in the habit of dropping my guard low enough to achieve any form of relaxation while in the company of strangers.”

“We’re not strangers. I’ve known you since I was eleven.”

“You know my name. My former profession. My war-time allegiance. You became, at one point, the reluctant temporary guardian of my most traumatic memories. None of those things make us friends, Mr. Potter. You know nothing of substance about me.”

“Trust me, I know enough to have gone bonkers.”

Severus frowns and wonders what the hell is that supposed to mean before deciding he doesn’t want to know. “I’m afraid your standards regarding the labeling of human interactions are terribly lax, then. Our connection to one another is tenuous. We exist at the fringes of each other’s lives.”

“Fine. Have it your way. We’re a pretty little set of almost strangers. Is there are any chance at all of changing that?”

Severus blinks, honestly shocked by the unexpected request. “I don’t see why you’d want to—

“OK. You know what? I’m going to go ahead and say this while I have the chance: I like you, Snape. A lot. I think you’re a pretty decent wizard, and I’d like to try my hand at befriending you.”

“You _what_?”

“I. Want. To. Be. Your. Friend.” Potter repeats patiently, emphasizing each word for Severus’s benefit. Severus stares at the Gryffindor as if he’d just sprouted five purple heads and proceeded to belt out an operatic aria in the middle of the infirmary.

“Why?”

“I told you. I like you.”

“No. You don’t. Do I need to remind you that—?

“Let’s agree that anything I may have said to you or thought about your person before the Final Battle was a product of my childishness at the time and your pretty impressive acting skills, OK? You were Dumbledore’s spy. You had a role to play, and you played it dammed well. Now I understand things I didn’t understand back then. I’m not a kid anymore. And spending the last two years walking up and down your neighborhood has allowed me to see what you are really like when you’re in your element.”

Severus doesn’t know what to say to that. Potter is staring at him unblinkingly, all defiant gaze, clenched jaw, and nervously jiggling left leg. In the end, neither Potter’s shocking words nor his plucky attitude manage to sway Severus. It’s the telling, anxious twitching of the brat’s lower limb that gets to him. Potter is emotionally attached to the idea he just proposed. He is putting on a good show but is plain enough to see that he’s bracing himself for rejection. To be fair, Severus’s instinctive response is a firm and immediate refusal to even contemplate the notion of exchanging civil pleasantries with the savior, but— Severus has been rejected enough times in his life to know precisely how Potter feels right now, and he’s loath to cause that sort of hurt to a man who has saved his life twice.

If Potter wants a shot at befriending him Severus supposes he has nothing to lose by giving him the chance. Who knows? If he plays his cards right, other, more charming members of his former house won’t be saddled with the task of trying to butter up Potter’s rabid pacifist. Maybe it is possible for Severus to befriend the incoming Minister of Magic instead of his future wife. Convincing Harry Potter to change his mind about disliking Slytherins would ensure a better life not only for Severus himself but also for every generation of Salazar’s children currently alive. For every generation waiting to be born.

“I suppose we could try.” He says quietly.

“Really?” Potter’s smile is as bright as the sun, but the open disbelief in his green gaze reminds Severus to be wary. They don’t trust one another. And maybe they never will. Attempting to grow friendship from so damaged a seed may turn out to be impossible.

“I’m not making any promises, Potter.” He feels honor-bound to add. “I’m only saying I’ll try.”


	10. Chapter 10

**  
Chapter 10.**

Severus leaves Hogwarts via the Floo connection in Minerva’s office on a bright Saturday morning. On the one hand, he looks forward to returning to his thoroughly missed routine, but on the other, he’s uncertain as to how to proceed with regards to his latest project of befriending Harry Potter. He’d written to Draco in a panic the day after caving to Potter’s strange request, and had received a carefully worded reply outlining the crucial importance of the task he’d so impulsively saddled himself with.

In the current political climate, being able to claim a closeness with Harry Potter is enough to make or break a man. Or a woman. Potter wields the sort of power the Dark Lord coveted but never managed to achieve. The Savior can do no wrong in the eyes of the public. Therefore anyone whose friendship the boy values is instantly considered to be worth their weight in gold while anyone Potter openly dislikes tends to become the epitome of evil incarnated overnight. Severus can’t afford to fall on the wrong side of that extremely thin line, but he’s never been particularly successful at charming others into friendship.

Severus’s every friend -bar Lily- has become so in spite of his efforts to push them away, and Lily had never really been his friend. Not when it mattered. It had taken ages for Severus to understand that she’d known loyalty. Had generously showered it upon those she found worthy of it, but hadn’t bothered to waste a single shred of it on him. Lily never gifted him her faith. Not like Lucius and Albus did. Lily gave up on him so easily because she’d never been as invested in their friendship as Severus himself had been.

Thus, she’d taught Severus a harsh lesson indeed, and forever shaped how he approaches relationships. Severus tends to be scrupulously fair in his interactions with others for he despises emotional manipulation in all its forms. He doesn’t want to mislead the brat, but he’s already promised himself that he will if he must. Right now Severus is aware that his motives for agreeing to Potter’s unexpected request to try pursuing a friendship are disgracefully self-serving, and he feels thoroughly guilty about that. The savior is acting in good faith, but Severus can’t honestly say the same about himself, at least not yet. He has every intention of being as honest as possible as he moves forward. He wants to meet Potter’s shocking request with an open mind, but he is uncomfortably aware that he’s not seeking Potter’s friendship for the right reasons. At this point, Severus doesn’t know if he’d prefer for Potter to turn out to be genuine enough to offer him something of substance, something they can build a real friendship on, or be the sort of shallow little brat that will walk away without hard feelings as soon as he’s sated his curiosity about what befriending Severus Snape looks like.

Such thoughts crowd his mind as the Floo Network spits him out onto the comforting familiarity of his living room, back home. Severus steps out of his hearth, dusting invisible specks of soot out of his clothes and instantly misses the wand he’d have used to vanish whatever clinging particles his cursory self-swatting has missed. That instant feeling of longing is so profound, so crippling, that Severus forces his eyes closed. He takes a deep breath and attempts to remind himself that his magic isn’t missing. Only his wand is. The thought doesn’t do much to lessen his grief, for he’s lost a trusted companion, but it puts the path ahead into the sort of perspective that allows him to see a way forward. Mourning people may be a healthy coping mechanism, but mourning things is a shameful form of self-pity. Severus doesn’t have time for—

A slight tug on the cottage’s wards warns him of the arrival of foreign magic in his domain a mere blink before the sound Potter’s distinctive, obnoxiously enthusiastic knocking, shatters the peaceful silence of his abode. For a split second, Severus toys with the idea of refusing to answer his door, just like he’s done every single time Potter has disturbed him thus in recent years. Either Potter has grown incredibly wise in the last week, or he’s always known Severus wasn’t answering his door on purpose because he sends in his Patronus with a startlingly pointed message before Severus can make up his mind about whether he is currently in the mood to receive the savior or not.

“Don’t you dare play possum, Snape. I know you’re home. I promised myself not to go and pick you up from Hogwarts like a crazy mother hen looking after her helpless chick. But I’ve been freaking out all morning long thinking about everything that could go wrong for you en-route. I want to make sure you’ve arrived safely.”

Severus huffs, unamused, and walks towards his front door, throwing it open abruptly enough to startle Potter into taking a step back. “And how pray tell, did you came upon the knowledge that I am, indeed, home, Auror Potter?” He demands without bothering to offer a single nicety in either greeting or welcome. “If you’ve so much as dared to cast a monitoring charm upon my property—

“Oh, it’s worse than that, Snape.” Potter grins as soon as he catches sight of him, looking disturbingly delighted to be in his presence. ”There’s a proper Gryffindor conspiracy afoot. In exchange for letting her know that I've seen you arrive home hale and hearty, Headmistress McGonagall gave me the heads up that you’d left Hogwarts.”

“I see,” Severus says, at a loss. Potter has never given him cause to be civil towards him. Or at least Severus hadn’t decided to accept the brat’s implied invitation to do so before now. He doesn’t want to invite the Auror into his home, but he is aware that it would look bad if he doesn’t.

“Your Floo trip OK?” Potter inquires, shuffling awkwardly from left to right atop the cottage’s stoop.

“Yes. Of course.” Severus answers, attempting to sound pleasant, and probably failing miserably when he adds, suspiciously. “How did you manage to cross my garden’s wards? They’re meant to keep away everyone, -and I mean _everyone_ \- who doesn’t have my explicit permission to be here, Potter.”

“Yeah, well. That sort of thing doesn’t work on Aurors.” Potter explains sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “The Department of Mysteries charms DMLE badges to bypass ward admittance lists. It allows us access to every building we feel the need to enter. That’s how I was able to reach you after you passed out in your front garden. It’s how the Ministry’s forensic team got in, too. They vanished all the blood from your grass and everything. I was glad to see it gone. I don’t know what I’ve had done if they’d decided to leave it. There was so much of it— It was awful.”

“They did a good job,” Severus answers stiffly when Potter’s voice breaks. He prays to Merlin for Potter not to go teary-eyed on him. Severus has never figured out how to offer emotional comfort to others. That was Albus’s thing, not his.

“What?” Potter blinks at him, apparently confused by Severus’s oblique answer. Severus swallows uncomfortably and forces himself to meet the boy’s expressive gaze. Whatever the savior sees in his eyes makes him smile awkwardly and attempt to shrug off the emotional reaction he’d betrayed a mere moment ago. ”Oh! Yeah. Your grass is as good as new, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“They’ve boxed the fairy nest and transferred it to wherever it is the Ministry keeps such things. The buggers who hurt you won’t get another chance to do so, professor. Neither Nathaniel nor yourself are at risk of creature retaliation anymore. They’ve also warded the lane’s boundary with the woodland. Nothing that doesn’t already belong to Sunlit Lane can get in.”

“That’s reassuring. Thank you for letting me know, Auror Potter.”

“I—er I should get going, anyway. I’m on duty until five, and Mrs. Gillbun, up in 136, is waiting for me to dig that bloody kneazle of hers out of her conker tree again. I swear one of these days I’m going to transfigure the little bugger into a squirrel and leave it there overnight.”

“I fear that course of action would be counterproductive. Hunting squirrels is the reason why Willoughby climbs that tree so often. Rather ambitious of him, I agree, but I find myself admiring his determination.”

“Willoughby?” Potter inquires, frowning in apparent confusion.

“Mrs. Gillbun’s pet kneazle, Potter. I thought we were talking about it.”

Potter’s air of confusion melts off his face as swiftly as it arrived. “Oh! Is that the evil beast’s name? I didn’t know.”

This time is Severus’s turn to frown. “I’d have thought old Esther would have delighted you by now with at least one frustratingly detailed recitation of her accursed kneazle’s silly adventures. She hardly speaks of anything else.”

“Oh, she does. Trust me, she does. But I sort of—um switch off, you know? It gets a bit repetitive after the first minute or so. I’ve learned to smile and nod my head every time she takes a breath. Mrs. Gillbun talks an awful lot, doesn’t she?”

“Well, she is terribly lonely, Potter. Her husband died ten years ago, and her only daughter lives in Sidney.”

Potter stares at him as if he’s suddenly turned as orange as Nathaniel’s latest artwork. “I didn’t know that either. How come you do?”

“Ariadna Gillbun is one of my Slytherins. She was a brilliant arithmancer and a hopeless potioneer. She graduated in 1985. I also happen to brew old Esther’s arthritis remedy every month. I hand-deliver it too.”

“You do?” Potter asks, looking positively startled. “How come I’ve never seen you doing that?”

Severus’s left eyebrow raises up. “You’ve never seen me brew a potion?”

Potter flushes bright red. “I’ve never seen you deliver stuff to Mrs. Gillbun. I’d have remembered it. I can’t even picture you walking up the lane, potion basket in hand, to make a house call.”

“Why would I walk up the lane to reach Old Esther’s home? That’s what the Floo Network is for, Potter.”

“Oh!” For some unfathomable reason, the idea that Severus isn’t a complete lunatic and happens to use the Floo Network just like every other sensible wizard in Britain seems to catch Potter by surprise. “I didn't realize you go everywhere via Floo.”

“Not everywhere. Nobody can Floo directly into Gringotts.”

“I suppose not.” Potter laughs. “It’s just that I-er— I hardly ever see you out on the road, so I assumed you were a bit of a hermit, you know? One of those blokes who spends all his time at home pottering around with herbs and things.”

Severus doesn’t know how to take that particular comment. Is Potter trying to imply that he believes Severus to be a cold fish who locks himself in his house to avoid all forms of human interaction, or attempting to explain that he sees him as the kind of nutcase who can only ever focus on one thing at a time, in this case, ‘pottering around with herbs and things?’ In either case, Severus is deeply offended. “If I were a hermit, which I assure you I’m not, the last thing I’d want is for my neighborhood’s Auror to offer me his friendship out of pity,” Severus says harshly.

Potter looks so startled that Severus would have smirked maliciously at him if he wasn’t so busy feeling incensed. And to think that his conscience has been trying to guilt him over the self-serving nature of his reasons for accepting this stupid brat’s friendly overtures! Severus’s thin lips press into a contemptuous line as he glares furiously at Potter. The savior gasps like a fish out of water and stares right at him, wide-eyed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Because that’s what it sounded like, Potter.”

“No. It wasn’t. It didn’t sound like that at all because that’s not what I meant.” Potter insists stubbornly, throwing Severus an outraged glare of his own. “Why the fuck are you so touchy? One second we’re talking, all friendly-like, and the next you accuse me of pitying you. As if I could. As if I _would_. What possible reason do I have to pity you, Snape?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” Severus sneers angrily, a mere millisecond away from slamming his door in the savior's face.

“I don’t have one because I don’t pity you, you, idiot. I like you. I’ve never met a more capable man.” Potter says softly, but Severus isn’t in the mood to allow himself the terrible mistake of being buttered up by a smooth-talking Gryffindor.

“Capable of what?” He challenges, pushing the brat’s buttons ruthlessly.

“Capable of everything,” Potter says quietly, and Severus’s righteous anger begins to cool as wary confusion replaces it.

“What does that even mean?” He demands, unable to put his finger on what, precisely, smacks him as odd about Potter’s diplomatic answer, but certain that something does nonetheless. “You’re not making any sense.”

Potter takes a deep breath and shakes his head from left to right. “I think we’re talking in circles,” he admits after a second. “I want to reassure you, but I don’t know the right words, and I’m making a hash out of it.”

“I see.”

“How about this? I’ll apologize for being an idiot who doesn’t know how to say what he means if you apologize for being a touchy bastard.”

“I’m afraid I can’t apologize for that. I happen to be a touchy bastard, Potter.”

Potter smiles cautiously and has enough courage to try teasing him gently, “Then I won’t apologize either. I happen to be a clumsy idiot who struggles to say what he means.”

Severus’s first instinctive reaction is to praise the boy’s boldness, which he doesn’t. His second is to smirk in amusement, which he does. Potter’s green gaze brightens in response, and they stare stupidly at one another for a minute or two. ”We good then, professor?” The boy asks in the end, “I’ll gladly take a touchy bastard if you take a clumsy idiot.”

Severus feels it then for the first time. That initial instant of communion between two people that lets them know their minds have managed to align. Potter and him— who’d have thought it? They may need a truckload of patience to make this work, but he can finally picture it. _‘Do I want it to work?’_ Severus ponders and is shocked to realize that the answer is yes. Befriending Potter honestly is possible, and Severus rather enjoys the idea of putting his oldest childhood demons to rest in this unexpected way. There’s a sort of poetic justice to the concept of allowing a Snape-Potter friendship to wash away the bitter taste of the old Potter-Snape hatred. “Fine.” He agrees. “I’ll take a clumsy idiot if I must.”

The brat giggles openly and bounces twice on the balls of his feet. He looks exultant and bright as he stands on Severus’s stoop, and Severus doesn’t know what to do with him. He is not used to dealing with bright and bouncy things. At least not adult ones. He can’t possibly treat Potter like he treats Nathaniel, can he?

“I’ll see you later then,” Potter says, interrupting his panicked thoughts. Severus watches the Savior of the Wizarding World take a reluctant step back and motion towards the lane. “I’ve got ambitious kneazles to rescue and all that. You should rest. You look tired. I’ll let the Headmistress know you arrived safely, OK?”

“Of course.” Severus agrees faintly, and remains there, standing motionlessly in his doorway as Potter turns around and crosses his front garden. The brat reaches the lane, looks back, and smiles widely. Severus waves at him in response to Potter’s ridiculous wave. He remains staring dazedly at the road long after Potter’s frame disappears, wondering what sort of sleeping dragon he’s just awakened.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11.**

Severus’s first and rather uncharitable thought upon clapping eyes on Nathaniel’s guardian boar, Mr. Wimby, is that the unfortunate-looking thing is as hideous as Potter told him it was. Nathaniel is bouncing up and down beside him, both plump cheeks and rounded chin liberally sprinkled with the crumbs of the cookies he’s helped his grandmother bake in honor of Severus’s return home. Severus himself is holding one of said cookies carefully in his left hand. He nibbles on the edge of it politely at regular intervals, taking care to praise its taste with enough enthusiasm to make Nathaniel puff up like a peacock.

“Do you see his wings, Master Snape? I made them look like the fairies’ wings. Fairies are scarier than birds, are they not? The wings of the Hofwarf’s boars are a bit like a pigeon’s. Pigeons are not cool. They’re not scary ei’er. I think Mr. Wimby likes to be scary. Should I draw a helmet for his head? Or A sword?”

“Whatever for?” Severus stalls for time, doing his very best to appear to be looking directly at the drawing while his gaze is carefully staring at a soothingly non-orange point just above it.

“For extra scary-ness?”

“I honestly think Mr. Wimby has that covered already. He is very— imposing. What did young Mr. Hillen say when he first saw it?”

“Oh, he screamed like a girl.” Nathaniel shares with delighted glee. “His cousin Benjamin told me it gave him nightmares. Is that what a magical guardian does, Master Snape? Does it give awful nightmares to your enemies?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had a personal magical guardian, Nathaniel.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t need one. I never had enemies growing up, just— rivals.”

“Rivals?”

“Yes.”

“Are those better or worse than enemies?”

“Better. Rivals are— well they’re just a bit jealous of us, you know? A rival is someone who wants to prove they are as smart or strong as we are. They compete with us for everything and try to get under our skin.”

“I see,” Nathaniel says, squinting his eyes in an attempt to look thoughtful. Severus bites his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing and waits the boy out, confident that the question he wants Nathaniel to ask will come out sooner or later. “But isn’t that what an enemy is, Master Snape?”

Severus holds his breath, wondering if he knows the right words to explain such subtle difference to so small a child. “No. It isn’t. A rival merely wants our glory. He’ll compete with us and dislike us, may even be cruel to us, but he won’t hate us so much that nothing else matters. A rival will move on and find someone else to bother eventually. He’ll also be easy to defeat if we’re smarter than him.”

“You mean an enemy is unbeatable?”

“No. But an enemy won’t listen. He won’t move on, won’t ever stop hating us. An enemy is like the fairies who attacked us. They didn’t want our apologies. They just wanted to destroy us.”

Nathaniel is silent for a very long time. He stares directly at Mr. Wimby, but looks distracted, clearly ruminating on Severus’s words. “I don’t think Bryce wants to destroy me,” he says at last.

“I don’t think he wants to destroy you either.” Severus agrees quietly.

“He’s still a nasty git, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Can rivals be nasty gits, Master Snape?”

“Of course they can. Rivals often are the nastiest gits of them all.”

“Oh! That’s all right then. I think I lik—

“You two visiting Mr. Wimby? I’d bet he’s delighted to have company.” Potter’s cheerful voice reaches them, and they turn around to face him. Potter stands in all his Auror-garbed glory bang in the middle of the lane, smiling at them goofily.

“Harry! We were looking at Mr. Wimby’s wings. Master Snape thinks they’re cool. He says Mr. Wimby looks in-po-sy.”

“Imposing, Nathaniel.” Severus corrects automatically. “It means that he’s very impressive.”

“Oh! Why didn’t you say he was impressive then?” Nathaniel demands, clearly puzzled.

“Because knowing more than one word to say the same thing makes me sound smart.”

“I see,” Nathaniel says in so clear an imitation of Severus’s pondering tone that even Potter notices it. The idiot is indelicate enough to start laughing and then has to cover his faux-pas with a cough so fake that it won’t spare Nathaniel’s pride in a year or two. Potter will have to do better. Severus won’t have his young friend shamed in such a way for doing something as natural as following the lead of his male role model of choice.

“Are you all right, Harry? Do you want me to ask grandma for a glass of water?” Potter shakes his head in the negative and brings himself under control.

“No. I’m alright, Nate. I think I just swallowed some dust or something.” Potter explains easily enough, and Severus would have challenged the idiot’s right to take the liberty of shortening Nathaniel’s name in such abysmal fashion if the boy himself hadn’t launched into speech before Severus could open his mouth.

“Dust is the pits. It gets everywhere, doesn’t it, Harry? I’m always getting in trouble ‘cause my room gets dusty. It’s not my fault! Grandmas are weird. Shouldn’t they know that dust goes where it likes?”

“Er— I suppose?”

“You think you can tell her that? She’ll believe it if you tell her. She likes you loads. Says you’re an awesome hero like Merlin. You don’t look like Merlin, though. Merlin’s clothes are much cooler than yours. And he’s in all the coloring books and stuff. You’re only in the newspaper. Newspapers are boring.”

Potter stares at Nathaniel, wide-eyed, and Severus hides a chuckle under the guise of nibbling on the cookie he’s still holding. This is probably one of the most entertaining things he’s witnessed this month, and he has no intention whatsoever of coming to the Auror’s aid, regardless of how many panicked, puppy-eyed looks Potter throws his way.

“I—er Didn’t Merlin live like 1500 hundred years ago? His clothes are not cooler; they’re old. Mine are modern. They’re red, which is a very nice color, and also much more comfortable. His are always an ugly brown, and I bet they itched like crazy.”

Severus watches Nathaniel’s indignation grow with every word that leaves Potter’s mouth and leans back comfortably against the waist-high picket fence that separates Old Mabel’s front garden from the lane. Potter has never been a teacher; thus, he’s failed to pick up on the breathless quality that Nathaniel’s voice acquired as soon as he mentioned Merlin. It’s clear as day to Severus that the ancient myth is a beloved favorite of the child. And Potter has just called it old and ugly and itchy. Surely fireworks of the Nathaniel Nothbury variety are about to go off.

“Merlin’s clothes didn’t itch. He was the most powerful warlock, ever. Magic itself chose him because he was the coolest. The most awesome. And he never wore red ‘cause red is a stupid color to wear when you’re running around a forest trying to defeat your enem—er rivals. Merlin’s clothes were brown and green and blue ‘cause those colors are perfect for ca-mu-fla-ge. King Arthur himself liked red, but Merlin taught him not to wear it for battles and stuff. And King Arthur listened to him, cause he knew Merlin was wise, and that’s how King Arthur learned how to be the bestest, strongest, and smartest warrior-king, EVER!”

Potter flinches at the increasing volume of Nathaniel’s incensed reply. “Well. That’s— I’m sorry. I didn’t know any of that,” Potter says faintly. “I never had a wise Merlin teaching me that sort of stuff.”

Shockingly, Potter’s placating words fail to soothe Nathaniel’s ruffled feathers. The boy frowns even more thunderously and crosses his tiny arms over his chest in a rather good imitation of old Mabel’s stern look. “You didn’t need Merlin ‘cause you had Master Snape. Wasn’t he your teacher when you were little? Everyone says so.”

Severus almost chokes on the piece of cookie he’d just bitten. Potter looks towards him with an unreadable expression and admits quietly, “Yes, he was. But he didn’t like me much, and I didn’t like him either.”

Nathaniel all but googles at Potter. “How could you not like him? Master Snape is super-cool.”

“He thought I was a troublemaker, Nate, and he was always out to get me. I hated getting detention.”

“You should have listened to him then. Master Snape is wise and cool. He knows loads and loads of awesome stuff, and he’s gonna teach me all of it. That’s how I’ll be wise and cool too when I grow up.”

“I think you’re already wise and cool, mate.”

“But I only know one potion, Harry. And Master Snape hasn’t had ‘nough time to teach me any of the magic drawing stuff. And I don’t know more than one word to say the same thing so I can sound as smart as him. I’ve got loads and loads to learn!”

“You also have dinner waiting for you, by the look of it, Nathaniel. Your grandmother has been trying to get your attention for the better part of five minutes now, young man.” Severus interjects smoothly.

Nathaniel turns his attention towards the house and spots old Mabel’s waving figure in the window. “Oops!” He giggles cheerfully, waving back at her enthusiastically before addressing Severus. “Are you sure you can’t stay then, Master Snape? Grandma made enough tomato soup for all of us. You’ll like it. It’s nice. And she lets me eat it with super-hot bread and loads and loads of butter. I like the bread better than the soup. But I think you’ll be boring like her. You like the soup better ‘cause it’s he-al-thi-er, don’t you, Master Snape?”

Severus can’t help but laugh at the boy’s antics. Ruffling the child’s wild mop of curls fondly, he steers him towards his grandmother’s front door even as he answers the question. “I do prefer the soup, Nathaniel, although I happen to like lentil soup better than tomato. I’d never say no to the bread, though. Buttery, hot bread is an amazing thing indeed. Particularly if it’s homemade.”

“Would you stay if I say it’s homemade?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Have you already forgotten my explanation? I didn’t realize you wanted me to stay for dinner, so I promised my godson I’d show up at his home for supper. I’m going to stay there overnight, and he’ll take me to Diagon Alley in the morning to purchase my new wand.”

“Why do you need your dragon to take you to Dagon Alley, Master Snape? It’s gonna take ages and ages for you to come back if you stay away all night. You never get back until after dark when you do that.”

“I need Draco’s company because I don’t have a wand yet, Nathaniel. Walking through a magical street can be dangerous when you can’t cast protective shields. I’ll try to return by five tomorrow if you insist on seeing me before you go to bed. How does that sound?”

“Oh! I insist. I insist.” The boy says solemnly, bouncing on the balls of his toes as they reach the house’s front stoop.

“It’s a deal, then.” Severus smiles, ruffling the boys’ hair one last time and opening the door for him. “Go on. You don’t want that lovely homemade bread to go cold, do you?”

Nathaniel steps into his home and takes two steps towards old Mabel’s kitchen before turning back abruptly to face him. Severus freezes half-way through the act of closing his neighbor's front door. “You should take Mr. Wimby with you to Dagon Alley, Master Snape. He’ll guard you good.”

Severus’s heart feels suddenly warmer, bigger than it should. “I couldn’t possibly—

“Please. You’ll have your dragon and my boar to protect you until you get your new wand. It was horrible around here when you got sick, you know? I don’t want you to get sick again.”

“That’s— All right. I shall allow Mr. Wimby to guard me. I’ll return him to your gate when I see you tomorrow.”

“Cool. Goodnight, Master Snape.” Nathaniel says, pleased, and then takes a deep breath and hollers loudly enough to deafen Severus, “NIGHT, NIGHT, HARRY!”

“Night, Nate!” Potter answers instantly from the lane, and Severus wonders what the Auror is waiting for as he finally closes his young friend’s front door.

“That boy cares an awful lot about you, Snape,” Potter comments when Severus stops by the gate that holds Mr. Wimby and ponders on the best way to remove the drawing from its perch. It’s obviously been pinned in place with a Sticking Charm.

“The feeling is mutual. I care about Nathaniel too, Potter.” Severus replies distractedly, leaning forward to trace the Finite rune upon the paper where Mr. Wimby resides. The drawing unsticks slowly from the fence post it’s attached to, and Severus catches it before it hits the soil. He holds it up reverently and wonders how the hell is he going to make sure it survives it’s upcoming Floo trip. He’ll have to beg Draco to cross over first and shrink it small enough to fit it inside his robe’s pocket.

“Want me to shrink it for you?” Potter questions, for once appearing to be uncannily attuned to Severus’s thought process.

“That would be incredibly helpful, Potter.”

The savior smiles brightly, “I’m the helpful sort, professor,” he says/jokes, Severus doesn’t know which. Then Potter pulls his wand out of its holder and casts the charm, smoothly adding an Anti-wrinkle and general Protection Shield to it. “There. That’ll about cover every eventuality Mr. Wimby should encounter on his trip to Diagon Alley. I wouldn’t want him to be so distracted by his chances of survival that he forgets to guard _you_.”

“Very funny, Potter.” Severus drawls dryly and starts walking towards his cottage. The Auror falls into step beside him.

“I wasn’t trying to be. I wholeheartedly agree with Nathaniel’s take on this. It was horrible around here when you were recovering at Hogwarts. It’s good to have you back, Snape.”

Severus hums noncommittally, at a loss for a better response. “Shouldn’t you be home already? I thought your shifts end at five.”

“They do. I was on my way down to check on you before heading home for the day when I spotted the two of you admiring Mr. Wimby.”

“I see.”

A thoroughly awkward silence falls between them after that. Under normal circumstances, Severus would have pointed out already that he’s not an invalid, and it’s presumptuous of Potter to assume he has any right to treat Severus as such. But Potter has always been awfully protective of his friends and hangers-on. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that, now that the Gryffindor has decided to apply that label to Severus, Potter is behaving towards him in the only way he knows how. It’s too soon to blow a hole right through that sort of behavior, isn’t it? He’ll scare the Auror away if he does that.

“I would have gladly taken you to Ollivander’s if you’d asked me,” Potter says after a while, looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“But I did not ask you, Potter.”

“Ouch! I know that. I’m not judging you for not asking me or anything. It’s just that— Malfoy doesn’t spend much time in Diagon Alley. Or any other alley really. None of you, Slytherins, do.”

“So?” Severus asks testily. He’s not in the mood to explain to the savior that the world he’s building with the help of his Gryffindor cohorts is nothing short of an exclusive little paradise. The type where no former snakes are allowed. Potter won’t see what’s in front of his eyes unless he wants to see it.

“Nothing.” Potter stutters, looking down towards the floor and clumsily dipping his hands in the pockets of his official robes in a gesture that reeks of nervousness. Their conversation dies one of its usual bloody deaths once again, and Severus despairs, realizing he’s the least suitable Slytherin for the task he’s set for himself. He’s got no patience whatsoever and no particular charm to speak of. He’s going to fail at befriending Potter, just like he’s failed at befriending every other naive, soft-hearted individual he’s ever attempted to get closer to. Severus feels endlessly relieved when they finally reach his property.

Severus steps inside the protection of his garden’s wards and forces himself to face Potter, already looking forward to the soothing cup of tea he plans on drinking after mumbling the polite goodnight already breaking past his lips: “Well. Thank you for—

Potter grabs his arm suddenly, cutting off his words, and Severus is so shocked by the action that he doesn’t instantly shake the boy away. “I wasn’t trying to judge you. I was just— I’m not blind. I know things have been hard for you, Slytherins. I know how badly you are treated when you venture outside your homes. I also know that Malfoy would gladly walk through fire for you, Snape, but he doesn’t have to. I’d have taken you to Olivander’s if you’d asked. And yes, I understand that you didn’t ask me, but maybe you didn’t realize that you could.”

“Potter, you don’t have to—

“Please, let me say this. I know I don’t have to do anything to help you. But I want to do it anyway. You can ask, Snape. For _anything_. Any time you want. All right?”

“All right.” Severus agrees faintly. Potter squeezes the arm he’s taken hold of in a reassuring manner before letting it go altogether. Severus stands there, utterly stunned by the boy’s generous offer while Potter takes a couple of steps back and Apparates away. The lane is empty and quiet in the soft purple light of the sunset. About a million busy insects fill the silence that surrounds him with their inharmonious serenade, and Severus wonders, not for the first time, what the hell is he doing here. Life used to be much simpler when he was a Hogwarts’ professor. He’s known his colleagues for so long that not a single one of them can surprise him anymore, and the children— Well. The children had never been overly complicated. Every one of them, except the Slytherins and a few -very few- select others, had hated him.

Nowadays, Severus has lovely neighbors who respect him. Grumpy customers who need him. Members of the general public who despise him. Former snakes and a few -very few- select others who honestly adore him. There is now also a certain former student who seems determined to shock him at every step with his sudden change of heart. It’s an exhausting, but interesting existence. Severus is aware that living in interesting times isn’t necessarily a good thing, but he hasn’t been so entertained in a very long time. He’s willing to keep going, see where all this leads, but he’s wary. He’s never been the luckiest bloke out there, and he sincerely hopes his future doesn’t go pear-shaped. He needs his post-war life to remain exactly like this: interesting in a thoroughly harmless way. He’s spent too long in harm’s way already.  
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	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12.**

Severus is in a fantastic mood when he steps out of the Floo’s green-tinged flames and lands on the expensive hearthrug that graces Blaise Zabini’s exquisite business office. Spotting his former student, who seats behind his elegant desk, Severus strides forward, right hand already extended in friendly greeting. The contained roar of the Floo activating once again echoes around the room and a moment later Draco’s cheerful “Hey, Blaise!” manages to greet their host a mere second ahead of Severus’s more formal attempt.

“Mr. Zabini,” Severus says, voice soft with approval at the confidence displayed by his former student’s firm handshake. “You look well.”

“Thank you, Sir. You look well too. Better than I expected. I was devastated to hear you were hurt. I trust you've got a clean bill of health?”

“He’s fine Blaise. There’s no reason to fret.” Draco pipes up as he, too, comes forward. “Haven’t you heard? The great Emille Bollingfrog himself took over Severus’s case. Our grumpy old bat won’t suffer a single side effect related to the Fae Bone Crushers he endured.”

“Your grumpy old bat can hear you, Draco.” Severus points out dryly.

“Thank Merlin!” Blaise exhales with relief, not-so-subtly inserting himself into the conversation before Severus can manage to berate his brat of a godson further. Both youths proceed to grin stupidly at each other, disproportionately proud of so small a victory, and Severus doesn’t begrudge it. They’ve always been like brothers, these two. Severus has the feeling that they always will be.

“Are the two of you done eyeing each other like a pair of lovesick Hufflepuffs?”

“Ewww! There’s no need to be mean, professor. You know better than anyone that my flawed heterosexual heart could never satisfy Draco’s, just like his thoroughly homosexual one could never satisfy mine.”

“Trust me, Mr. Zabini, I thank Merlin daily for that small mercy. I shudder to imagine what sort of shenanigans the two of you would get into if you were, literally, joined at the hip.”

“See?” Draco laughs, stepping close enough to embrace his former dorm-mate warmly. “He’s right as rain. Spent most of last evening composing the foulest howler I’ve heard in a while in retaliation to the last letter father sent to mother.”

“Oh, no.” Blaise bursts out laughing. “Did the letter have anything to do with the professor's ‘outrageous lack of courtesy in putting himself in harm’s way?’”

“How do you kno—?

“Please do not embarrass either yourself or your former Hogwarts’ house by finishing that particular question, Draco. It’s evident that young Goyle must have visited Mr. Zabini recently, and repeated verbatim the description of your father’s latest rant as his own sire heard it.”

“Father isn’t the sort of man who keeps his displeasure to himself.” Draco agrees. “It makes perfect sense that he vented his frustrations to old Goyle. They’re cellmates after all.”

“Did you rip dear old Lucius a new one in that howler of yours, Sir?”

“Blaise!”

“Oh, shush, Dray. The way Greg’s dad put it, Lucius was frothing at the mouth when he realized the professor could have died before Lucius makes it out of Azkaban and delivers that punch he’s been dreaming about ever since Snape decked him at the end of the Malfoy trials. I can’t imagine any letter your father wrote in that sort of mood being particularly pleasant. He shouldn’t have sent such a thing to your mother, but she won’t scold him for it and neither will you. Thus the most unpleasant job in the Malfoy household falls, once again, to your godfather.”

“There was no unpleasant task to fulfill, Blaise. Nobody asked Severus to intervene. Father was behaving like a child, so Mother and I were planning to ignore him.”

“He’d have sent more abuse. This time directed at the two of you instead, and you know it. Your dad doesn’t take dismissal lightly.” Blaise says softly.

“Lucius’s tiresome need to be reassured that he’s neither being dismissed nor forgotten should have been soothed by the howler I sent him. I sincerely hope his delicate ears turned an unpleasant shade of purple before falling off altogether after listening to the liberating amount of foul language I employed to describe my thoughts on his lack of manners towards his wife and child.”

“Good for you, Sir.”

“Don’t encourage him, please,” Draco begs Blaise with a tired sigh. “Father won’t react well to that howler, and Severus here is too busy enjoying his self-satisfaction over it, to care that for every antagonistic exchange he shares with my sire, he’s adding one more line to the long list of grievances he’d be expected to atone for when Father finally walks out of Azkaban.”

“That’s precisely it, Draco: Lucius will walk out. Anything that idiot needs to rile him into surviving what’s left of his sentence, I’ll gladly provide. I draw the line at allowing either you or your mother to shoulder the brunt of your father’s frustrations, and he should have drawn that line too.” Severus explains, even though he’s sure Draco already knows this.

Draco smiles wanly. “Father won’t like the world he’ll be released into.”

“None of us do,” Severus says, wishing he were the kind of man who’d offer the boy an uplifting platitude to ease the hurt of the moment and knowing he isn’t. Lying to those he cares about has never been his style.

“Well. We’ve got plenty of time to change it.” Young Zabini has no trouble offering the corny, hopeful, white lie Severus cannot voice. “Four years should be long enough, especially now. A little bird told me last night that you, my dear professor, have decided to cultivate a certain savior’s friendship for the benefit of us all.”

“That’s making the rounds fast.” Severus sighs.

“Well, it should.” Blaise points out. “It’s the best news I’ve heard in months.”

“It’s also probably a doomed attempt. I’ve recently realized I may not be the best candidate for that particular task.”

“How recent is this realization, godfather? You sounded confident enough in the letter you sent me a few days ago.”

“I’ve encountered Potter twice since I left Hogwarts and— our interactions have been difficult.”

“Difficult, how?” Blaise asks, plainly worried. “I know for a fact that Potter is interested in calling a truce with you. If you can’t befriend the Boy Who Lived, none of us can.”

“I’m not as charming as you or Draco, Blaise. I can’t put up with bullshit the way Theo does. I don’t thrive in the face of awkward conversations like Pansy, or have Daphne’s sympathetic ear.”

“Does Potter want any of that? Because he’d be a pretty poor judge of character indeed if it turns out that’s the sort of thing he’s looking for and he’s fixated on you, Severus.” Draco says, and promptly turns an entertaining shade of pink when Blaise smacks him upside the head.

“Way to go, Dray. Why don’t you go ahead and destroy the non-existent confidence of our only chance of sweet-talking Potter into being fair to us some more, eh?”

“Hey! I wasn’t trying to dishearten him,” Draco protests loudly, “I was aiming for reassurance.”

“Well. You failed.” Blaise snaps back before taking a deep, grounding, breath. “Alcohol. We need alcohol. This conversation is going to suck balls otherwise.”

“I suspect this conversation will ‘suck balls,’ either way, Mr. Zabini. Unfortunately, it’s barely one thirty in the afternoon, which is a most inappropriate time for consuming hard liqueur, and I refuse to head over to Ollivander’s smelling like a distillery. I also have an unavoidable engagement around five, which means we can’t indulge afterward, either. There are certain adult patterns of behavior that five-year-old children shouldn’t be privy to.”

“Fair enough, Sir. Let’s agree to ignore Dray’s unhelpful contributions to the topic so far. He knows not what he’s talking about, the poor, deluded soul.”

“And you do?” Draco challenges, pouting like the brat he used to be. Like the brat he still is sometimes, if Severus is honest.

“I’m telling you, man. I own the most stylish fucking club in London’s Magical Quarter, don’t I? None of those Gryffindor goody-two-shoes can do better, so they’re forced to come over to the dark side in search of entertainment. They may come in reluctantly at first, but eventually they cave to their need to party like proper twenty-somethings instead of like geriatric gits who still believe Celestina Warbeck is all the rage.”

“And your point is?” Draco demands, thoroughly unimpressed with Blaise’s argument so far. Severus looks between the two of them, catches sight of their equally stubborn expressions and defensively crossed arms, and barely manages to resist rolling his eyes. This is going to take a while, so he might as well sit down. Blaise’s office happens to have excellent fireside chairs.

“My point is that the Gryffindors come in, all circumspect-like, and then drink like bloody fishes. Specially Finnegan. Weasley isn’t a shy lamb, either. And Potter— what a joke! Potter is a lightweight. The man can’t hold his liquor at all. They say things, you know? Loads of things. And I hear all of them.”

“What sort of things?” Severus asks, intrigued despite himself.

“Well, for starters, Potter asks a hell of a lot after you, Sir.”

“He asks _after_ me?” Severus repeats, startled.

“Yes.”

“Not _about_ me?”

“Nope. Potter definitely asks after you.”

“Why would Potter—?” Draco brings his spluttered question to a stop before he finishes asking it, and voices a more suspicious one instead. “Who the hell does he ask? It’s not like any of us spends much time at the club during opening hours. Being a friend of the proprietor has it’s advantages when it comes to arranging private parties.”

“I’m starting to believe it’d be best for us in the long run to mingle more than we do, Dray.”

Draco goggles. “Are you mad? The last time I showed up in Diagon Alley, a pimply-faced teenager spat on my Russian mink coat after trying to hex me with boils. Someone cast the Corn-Flaked Skin Jinx on poor Pansy just two days ago while she stood in broad daylight on the steps of Gringotts. The Aurors didn’t even bother to show up. The fucking goblins didn’t lift a finger. And there was not a single good samaritan among the crowd of people who stood there, gaping at my best friend, and laughing at her hysterics. I’m not ‘mingling’ anywhere until someone bloody shows some fucking care for my goddamned safety and that of my loved ones, Blaise.”

“I hear you, Dray. But I’m starting to think we’ve been going about this the wrong way. Isolating ourselves is not the answer. Potter is. And he likes to come here. All his friends do. So at least some of us should make the effort of being here openly too.”

“And who shall we throw to the lions? Me? Potter hates my fucking guts. Pansy? I don’t think so. Daphne? Merlin! They’ll eat her for breakfast.”

“We give them the professor. I’m telling you, man, Severus is our only way in. I become the center of Potter’s undivided attention as soon as I mention him in casual conversation. The savior can’t get enough of your godfather.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Severus decides to interject. “Potter has always despised me. I was the bane of his existence while he was at Hogwarts. I heard him say so just yesterday evening.”

“I assure you, Sir. He’s changed his mind. He’s always fishing for news about you.”

“And what, precisely, have you told him?” Draco demands, sinking down onto the fireside chair opposite Severus’s.

“Not much. I throw him a bone or two here and there. Bring up Severus’s plans to dine with you or his latest rant about low-quality ingredients every time it looks like the savior’s patronage of this fair establishment is wavering. He is interested, and I want to keep him coming back. I also have complete control of the small amount of information that makes its way to Potter. It’s a win-win situation for everyone involved.”

“I suppose that’s wise.” Severus agrees with the idea on principle. “Although I may change my mind if I ever discover that you’ve shared anything more personal than that. Neither my day to day plans nor the content of the correspondence I exchange with you are meant for public consumption, Mr. Zabini. A less rational man would consider your actions an unforgivable betrayal of trust.”

Blaise has the decency to look contrite. “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned this to you, professor. But I honestly think it’s all harmless curiosity on Potter’s part. He doesn’t see you much despite being on patrol in your neighborhood. It’s been driving him batty for a while.”

“Ah, yes. He thinks me a hermit. One of those blokes who, and I quote, ‘spends all his time at home pottering around with herbs and things.’”

As soon as he hears that, Draco, the fiend, explodes in loud peals of incredulous laughter. Blaise manages to hold onto his poise by the skin of his teeth, but his dark gaze widens so much, and he bites his bottom lip so hard, that Severus can plainly see the hysterical giggles he’s doing his best to swallow anyway so he may as well have joined Draco instead of bothering to whisper, “I can’t believe Potter said that to your face, Sir.”

“Oh, I can. I so can. Saint Potter is such a fucking idiot.” Draco manages to hiccup between two breathless gasps of gleeful mirth. Severus is glad that the gloomy turn their conversation was taking has shattered. He can’t make much sense of Potter’s seemingly random interest in him, but he is willing to trust Blaise’s opinion on the matter. The boy is the only one among them with first-hand information, after all.

“So neither of you think it a good idea to arrange for Theo to approach Potter instead of me? Mr. Nott is charming and young. He’s the only Slytherin of his generation who managed to gain employment within the Ministry. Moreover, Theo has no direct link to the death eaters, and the patience of a saint. He also happens to harbor a rather puzzling infatuation for one Ginevra Weasley when one considers that Mr. Nott is such a sensible, studious soul while Mrs. Weasley is nothing of the sort.”

“Well, at least she is single.” Blaise points out. “Her affair with Thomas ended about six months ago, and she’s sworn off males for the time being. Or so she promised the bottom of her cocktail-glass the last time she was here. She’s signed with the Harpies this season, and they’re on track to end the league in the top five.”

“Would she go for Theo, though?”

“Don’t know, Dray. Maybe. She likes them soulful. Thomas is an artist, after all.”

“Orchestrating an accidental meeting between them may be hard to arrange. They don’t run in the same circles.” Severus hedges.

“That’s were my club comes in, Sir. Everyone runs in that circle.”

“I see.”

“Ginny Weasley will be in town next weekend. I’m sure she’ll drop by at some point. We could—

“I’m not certain we should ask young Theodore to risk his heart thus. He cares for the girl. She could very easily break him, and there’s no guarantee the Weasley chit would become Mr. Nott’s entry-ticket into Potter’s inner circle even if she doesn’t.” Severus cautions, unwilling to risk one of his snakes for so small a chance of success, even though he’s the one who suggested passing the Gryffindor-befriending task onto Theo.

“Ah. No. Just— no. Theo should go ahead and chat the bird up for his own sake, Sir. He’ll never move on otherwise.” Blaise says confidently. “But he’s not our way in. You are. I’m telling you. Potter once mentioned to me that you are his mother’s ‘Ron,’ then he went on and on about how he’d love for his children to grow up around his best friend’s. He wants to build that same connection with you. I don’t care how hard your latest interactions with the savior have been, professor, you must persevere. I know this one thing for certain: you don’t need to charm him. Potter is already hooked. You can do no wrong right now because, as far as he is concerned, you’re his last connection to his mother.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13.**

Severus doesn’t have a chance to explore Blaise’s astonishing conclusions for the next few days. Bearing in mind how utterly confident the club owner had been of his assertions, Severus had gone as far as to brace himself for a literal barrage of cheerful ‘Top O’ the mornings’ from the moment he used his new wand to return his recently enlarged hedge to its former length. Potter has been in no rush to hound him so far, though, and Severus can’t decide whether he feels disappointed by this state of affairs, or relieved.

He has just begun the arduous task of unspooling the intricate web of protection wards laid over the simple wooden case he had the goblins forward from his personal Gringott’s vault when Potter hollers his name from the lane like an uncouth hooligan. Severus sets his still unfamiliar wand on the leather blotter on his desk and sits back in his chair, scowling in displeasure at the half-opened window.

“SNAPE. HEY, SNAPE. SNAAAAAPPPPPEEEE!”

“Oh, for the love of—“ Severus grumbles, shooting out of his seat and heading downstairs as fast as his legs will carry him. He refuses to engage in something as undignified as a window to road conversation with the bloody Savior of the Wizarding World. “Shush, Potter! There is no need to screech under my window like a dying banshee for the amusement of the entire neighborhood.” He growls, embarrassed, as soon as he opens his front door.

Potter grins at him sunnily and edges closer. “Don’t be so dramatic. Your house is too far away from the rest. Nobody can overhear anything that goes on down here.”

“Well, I can hear what’s going on, and I don’t appreciate anyone yodeling my name for no good reason. Why on Earth didn’t you try the door?”

“Because you never answer it? Last time I tried that, I had to send in my Patronus. I’ve decided to explore other ways of getting your attention.”

“Please don’t. I will respond to your knocking from now on, I promise. If I don’t, you’re to assume I’m not at home. Are we in agreement?”

“You won’t use this new deal to, I don’t know, fake that you aren’t here?” Potter checks, in so Slytherin an approach to negotiating boundaries that Severus is stunned.

“I shall not mislead you into thinking I’m away, Auror Potter.”

“Good. That’s good. I’ll knock next time then. I’m sorry for -er making a scene and such.”

“You’re forgiven just this once.”

“Great!”

Severus hums under his breath and stares expectantly at Potter, ready to hear the reason behind this not so horrible -yet- visit. Potter beams at him sunnily for another second or two and then becomes increasingly fidgety. A wary silence creeps between them, and Severus cannot think of a single thing to say that could possibly bridge it. This is Potter’s play, after all. The ball is in the Auror’s court, so to speak. There must be an explanation as to why the boy was hollering his name with such abandon not five minutes ago.

“I-er haven’t seen you lately,” Potter says finally, turning completely pink from neck to ears. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m in perfect health. Thank you, Auror Potter.” Severus replies formally, at a loss for what else to do. The boy seems to be here in an official capacity, and Severus thoroughly expects him to turn around and leave now that the Auror has confirmed his safety. Inexplicably, Potter flinches upon hearing Severus’s reply and, even more puzzlingly, lingers.

“Did you had a good time at Malfoy’s place the other day?”

“Yes, of course. Narcissa Malfoy is a very gracious host.”

“Great. I-er Nathaniel mentioned your new wand. He likes it.” Potter laughs a tad hysterically then, and Severus shifts warily from left to right, ill at ease with this painfully awkward attempt at small chat. “Nate likes everything of yours really. You’re his hero. You know that, right?”

“Fondness isn’t hero-worship, Potter. I’m hardly champion material.”

“Right. Of course you’d think that way. I’ve never met anyone more self-deprecating.” Potter grumbles unhappily, and Severus can’t help the frown that replaces his attempt at a polite and interested expression. He seems to have lost the thread of their strange conversation, and can’t figure out where it's supposed to lead.

“Potter, what on Earth ar—?

“How about drinks?” Potter interrupts him in a panic, then lurches forward and pushes his booted right foot hard against the doorjamb, as if he’s afraid Severus plans to close the door in his face.

“Drinks?” Severus repeats, startled, and tries his best not to glare down at Potter’s boot.

“Yeah. Pints. O-or coffee. Wait. You don’t like coffee, do you? I bet you don’t. Never mind. I could do tea.”

“Tea,” Severus says slowly, feeling no more enlightened than a second ago about why, exactly, they’re suddenly discussing beverages. “You wish me to invite you in fo—

“No!” Potter has the actual gall to interrupt him once more and then sags despondently about the shoulders when Severus glares at him. “Sorry. I-er I’m not trying to invite myself in for tea, Snape. You can keep being all mysterious about what the inside of your cottage looks like if you want. I just… Godric Freaking Gryffindor! Why is this so bloody hard?”

“Because you make it so?” Severus snaps. He is honestly at the end of his rope and struggling to remember a single good reason why he should put himself through this torture. Potter is obviously a moron. There’s no way they can ever be friends. Wouldn’t it be better for Severus to cut his losses now, when the savior hasn’t yet developed any ill will towards him, rather than risk moving forward only to alienate the idiot further and make everything worse?

Potter, contrary creature that he is, laughs at Severus’s show of displeasure and instantly relaxes. “I suppose that’s true. Sorry, but you make me nervous, Snape. It’s just weird talking to you without hearing at least one growl in there somewhere. It throws me off my game, you know?”

“I. Do. Not. Growl.” Severus points out, offended.

“I know.” Potter agrees with a small, unhappy shrug. ”You don’t growl unless you’re talking to me. Or to someone you think is an idiot. Which doesn’t bode well for me at all, does it?”

“I wouldn’t growl at you if you attempted to make sense, Potter. I find conversing with you hopelessly confusing.” Severus confesses in the hope that a little bit of honesty will gain him either some sort of explanation regarding what the hell is going on, or Potter’s inclination to be patient.

Potter laughs once more, and this time, his mirth sounds genuine. There’s the barest hint of pink back in his cheeks and a shy little smile playing on his lips. “I was trying to invite you out for drinks. Not the other way around.”

“Out? As in outside Sunlit Lane?” Severus can’t help the question. The offer has shocked him out of what he now realizes was a somewhat unrealistic vision of how a friendship between himself and Potter would progress. Severus had imagined a distantly cordial relationship born of increasingly warmer greetings delivered through his kitchen window, and the occasional exchange in person whenever they coincided while Severus was out in the lane. Potter, on the other hand, seems to want something a lot more involved.

“Yes? Er- I mean there’s this lovely bakery down in Peripheral Alley that makes the best cranberry scones I’ve ever tasted, and—well. Nathaniel mentioned how much you like cranberry cookies when I took him to Hogwarts, so I think you’d like those too. I’d love to take you there. Or we could go to Rosmerta’s if you prefer, we could share a couple of pints or something. There’s also this really posh club that opened a while ago at the edge of—

“I’m aware of the existence of Mr. Zabini’s club,” Severus interjects, trying to bring the Auror's nervous babbling to a stop. Potter stares at him, wide-eyed, snaps his mouth closed so abruptly that Severus hears his jawbone click, and begins to fidget with a loose thread on the sleeve of his uniform. “I may not be welcome inside that lovely bakery of yours, Potter.” Severus feels honor-bound to explain. “Perhaps we should limit our interactions to the shelter provided by this neighborhood, and our respective properties, if you feel like drinking tea in my company.”

“Perhaps you need to remember that I happen to be welcome every-fucking-where, Snape. Nobody will dare to throw you out of their business if you walk in as my guest.” Potter growls so rudely that Severus would have been impressed if he wasn’t way too busy blinking at the brat in shock.

“Perhaps I find that sort of arrangement humiliating,” Severus says evenly, and Potter looks into his eyes so hard, and for so long, that Severus starts pondering the wisdom of averting his gaze. There’s no way the Gryffindor managed to learn Legilimency in the last handful of years, is there?

“I sincerely doubt you’d mind putting up with a bit of humiliation if that action opens the door for the rest of your snakes to follow where you tread. They wouldn’t be welcome in my lovely bakery either, but they’d love to be. Wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose they would. The thought of helping my former students thus has crossed my mind,” Severus admits stiffly.

“Don’t lie to me, professor.” Potter berates him without much heat. “I bet that’s the only reason you agreed to let me befriend you in the first place.”

“It is,” Severus confesses quietly. He sees no point in denying it. He’s blown his chance anyway.

Potter smiles at him fondly. “Then let’s not do this in the shadows. Come out with me. Let me open the doors of Wizarding businesses for you. Let me help you bring your snakes back into the light.”

“Why would you help me do that?”

“Because it’s fair. Because it’s what you want to do, what Dumbledore would have wanted. And because if the bravest man I’ve ever met is the Slytherin who trained all the rest, they can’t possibly be as arseholey as they look?”

That last irreverent question manages to startle Severus into laughter. He wouldn’t have chosen to put all his cards upon the table in such a fashion, but can certainly admire Potter’s straightforward approach. He is also profoundly relieved that his underhanded reasons for agreeing to befriend the Savior of the Wizarding World have been exposed. Despite having played the role of double-spy for twenty long years, Severus doesn’t like lying. He prefers to keep his relationships thus, sincere in both intention and emotion. There is less heartbreak involved in getting closer to others this way. A lot less to fear, and a lot less to hope for too. This way, there is only reality, and Severus finds reality soothing. “Fine. I accept your invitation to tea, Auror Potter.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course,” Severus says even though he doesn’t understand why he suddenly finds himself reassuring Potter. This is what the idiot wants, isn’t it? Then why the hell does he look so surprised?

“Great! That’s um—yeah. When do you want to go?”

“I’m not sure. When will it be most convenient for you?”

“Anytime. I’m not busy at all. I-er- How about today, after I finish my rounds?”

“Isn’t that a tad rushed? I’d prefer to have some time to adjust to the idea of visiting a public place in your company.”

“Oh! Of course. Slytherins like to drag their feet a bit. I’d forgotten about that. I’m sorry.”

“Slytherins do not like to—

“How about tomorrow then?” Potter interrupts him hastily, going as far as to smile charmingly in his direction and flutter his eyelashes in a ridiculously apparent attempt to avoid starting another argument.

“Fine!” Severus growls, refusing to be charmed out of the funk caused by Potter’s causal disparaging remark about his house’s tendency to think things through. Being cautious isn’t a crime, and Severus resents the Gryffindor's implication that it is.

“Good. OK if I pick you up ‘round five-thirty? That’d give me enough time to go home and change out of my uniform before collecting you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m not afraid of being seen in the company of an Auror, Potter.”

“Well. I don’t want anyone to mistake the reasons why we’re there together. This isn’t an official outing. It’s a personal one. This is a part of my day, a part of my life, that has nothing to do with my job.”

“I see.” Severus says faintly, and Potter has the gall to grin smugly, looking for all intent and purposes as if he is privy to the fact that Severus ‘sees’ very little indeed.

“Awesome. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Potter beams at him once more before bouncing down the stoop, out of his front garden, and all the way out into the lane. Severus stands there, watching him leave, while the stunned mantra of _‘what the fuck did just happen?’_ begins to make the rounds inside his head. Severus is befuddled. And not at all certain that he’s made the right call. At least they’re moving in the right direction, and Potter knows about the selfish reasons behind Severus’s decision to indulge his wish for friendship. Severus has nothing to fear. Nothing to regret. He isn’t hiding a single thing from the savior and, therefore, has nothing to lose. Everything should be as easy as pie from here on end.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Potter’s bakery is lovely indeed, and their cranberry scones even more so. Severus hasn’t been to a public tea house since the end of the war and, even before that, he’d never been a particular fan of such establishments. It’s strange then how much the experience delights him. He has become fond of things he’d never enjoyed before just because they’re openly denied to him in the postwar world he’s so thoroughly trapped in, alongside with the rest of his Slytherins.

Potter hides a fond smile behind the overly floral patterned teacup he is holding up like a shield, and Severus wonders why the Auror feels the need to put so much effort into trying to hide such innocuous emotion. They’ve been sitting here for about an hour now, having spent the first twenty minutes or so perusing their menus, placing their orders and exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather while they’d waited to be served. The unbearable awkwardness of trying to fill the growing silence with something they both find interesting eased just a tad with the arrival of their beverages and Potter had even laughed at Severus’s shocked expression when he’d first tasted the scones.

“Good. Aren’t they?” Potter had asked, restless fingertips mangling an embossed napkin for no good reason Severus could see. He’d hummed in agreement, too busy chewing to dare answering verbally, and they’d fallen into a different sort of silence. One that felt peaceful instead of suffocating. One that had allowed Severus’s tense shoulders to relax the smallest inch.

Now they’re both on their second cup of tea, scones long gone from the crumb-filled plate between them, and Severus feels the need to break the quiet. They can’t possibly build a friendship out of unvoiced words and wary staring. There must be something they share other than memories of the war, of Hogwarts, of their equally unhappy childhoods. Despite Blaise’s insistence that Potter is looking to get closer to his mother via him, Severus doesn’t feel comfortable bringing up Lily. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Lily is a wound that cut him deeply and, although he can understand Potter’s curiosity about her, Severus doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to indulge it.

“I’d bet Narcissa Malfoy would love this place,” Potter says suddenly, commanding his attention with an ease that Severus finds mildly disturbing.

“She would. Narcissa is very fond of floral-patterned crockery.”

“Is she now?” Potter laughs, “Somehow I imagined her preferring plain colored cups. The kind with that posh silver rim on them. Andromeda likes those.”

“Mrs. Tonks is a pragmatic woman, while Narcissa has always been fond of flowers. She earned a mastery in Herbology after Hogwarts. The manor’s gardens are famous across Europe for their magnificence.”

“That explains how Malfoy knows everything worth knowing about potion ingredients. I bet his mum planted the lot in those awesome gardens of hers.”

“Not every potion ingredient is plant-based, Potter. Draco had a very strict tutor when he was young.”

“You mean _you_?” Potter asks dryly and reclines easily against the backrest of his chair even as his relaxed smile dims a bit when Severus inclines his head in confirmation, “Gosh! What a lucky bastard. He learned how to bottle fame, brew glory, and bloody put a stopper in death before he was eleven.”

“None of that knowledge helped save him from the trials he now faces.”

“You mean the disgruntled staring and the insults people throw his way every time he goes out?

“It’s more than that, Potter. Sometimes there are curses involved. He’s ended up in St. Mungo's a time or two, and he is not the only one.”

“That’s rough.”

“It’s worse than ‘rough.’ It’s systematic discrimination. Draco couldn’t find a single British master willing to take him on after Hogwarts. He was forced to pursue higher education abroad. He is the most accomplished curse-breaker of his generation, yet Gringotts refuses to hire him, and the same can be said for the Ministry of Magic. My godson is currently employed by the German version of the DMLE and must travel by port-key across half of Europe daily. His mother is understandably terrified that some strapping foreigner named Ernst or Hans will manage to catch his eye one of these days, and Draco will simply fail to return home.”

“Why don’t they move over there, then? I’m sure they have property in Germany.”

“Why should they move? They were both exonerated, Potter. They’re born and bred British citizens. They have every right to remain here. All of us have, yet that doesn’t count for anything.”

“Hey, I wasn't trying to suggest you all should leave, I was merely wondering why you haven't. It may sound to you like I don't care, but I do. I know what's happening to the Slytherins isn't fair, Snape,” Potter says earnestly. “This is not the world I died to save. Not by a long shot.”

“Then why don’t you change it?”

“Because I can’t. I’m only me. And a one-man army isn’t enough to change the world. Dumbledore would have managed it ages ago if it was possible.”

Severus ruminates on that thought. He’s inclined to agree with it, to embrace it even. But this is Harry Potter they’re talking about. The boy has the sort of appeal among the public that Albus never had. Where Albus was a leader who often demanded blind faith and delivered aid only to the worthy. Potter is merciful across the board. He helps others for the sake of helping them and rarely makes unreasonable demands; that makes him the sort of man others look blindly up to. The type who could change the world single-handedly indeed if he ever bothers to try.

“I didn’t realize Malfoy was DMLE. I thought he’d studied potions. Merlin knows he was a damned good brewer.” Potter offers quietly after a while, signaling the waiter to bring them another pot of tea.

“Draco excels at many things, but his heart was never in potions. He wished to please me by shinning in my field of choice up to a certain point, but the sentimental fool never wanted to surpass me. Now we’ll never know what the world would have looked like if he’d followed in my footsteps. Merlin knows the boy has enough imagination to birth at least one miracle.”

“I’ve never heard you talk like that about anyone before,” Potter says gruffly, and Severus’ gaze shifts from his absentminded contemplation of the floral design so carefully etched onto his delicate cup to the unnervingly intense expression plastered all over the Savior's face.

“I’ve never been particularly impressed by anyone of your acquaintance. You tend to surround yourself with Gryffindors, Potter. It’s not my fault that you’ve got terrible taste.”

The brat laughs easily. He smiles easily too. Genuinely. Warmly. Severus doesn’t know what to make of it, this ease with which Potter accepts him as if there’s nothing on earth Severus could possibly say that would turn him away.

“I think you’re biased. You need to give us, lions, a chance. Who knows? We might surprise you.”

“You might.” Severus smirks, “But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.” Potter snorts inelegantly while Severus serves himself another cup of tea and begins to sip it quietly. He is pleased with their banter. Once upon a time, playful house rivalry had laid the foundation for his current friendship with Minerva, and look how far they’ve both come. Severus may never grow that close to Harry Potter, but he doesn’t have to do so. The savior will move on eventually, become busier as he marries his motherly maniac and raises a gaggle of children, as he climbs up the Ministry ladder. Severus will be perfectly content watching him shine from the sidelines, especially if he has reason to believe he’d have the boy’s ear should the occasion call for it.

“Well. I like _you_ , Snape, so my taste can’t be that bad.”

Severus hums noncommittally, unable to come up with a reasonable response. Potter studies him intensely for a long time, allowing a strangely charged silence to fill the space between them. Severus can’t figure out why the brat seeks his praise, but it’s patently clear that he does. Potter is out of luck, though. Because Severus may admire a quality of his here and there, but he doesn’t _like_ the boy, and he is not willing to lie about it now that they’ve exposed their cards to one another. He holds his peace and the moment grows heavy, spinning around them with a thousand unsaid things. Eventually, Severus places his teacup back onto its saucer and pushes away from the table. He’s had enough tea for now. It’s time to head back home.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15.**

The day after their public outing, Severus reads The Prophet from cover to cover. He’d expected to see their picture on the front page, alongside the most unflattering recitation of his not-so-illustrious career as a Death Eater, and a general outcry for the savior to return to his senses and turn his back on the treacherous Slytherin turncoat who’d, literally, gotten away with murder. What he reads instead is a lengthy and tedious account of the international meeting held last night in Lisbon, accompanying a hopeful little article extolling the virtues of international cooperation among the different magical communities in Europe.

Severus frowns. He knows there is no way the paparazzi missed Potter’s apparently cordial rendezvous with a well known Dark Wizard. They follow the boy’s every step like faithful shadows, reporting everything under the sun that could even be remotely related to him. Harry Potter is big news. Usually, he is also the sort of news that are both terribly boring and insufferably staid. The press should have been all over the Gryffindor's ‘scandalous’ public encounter with Severus Snape, former You Know Who’s right-hand. The fact that they aren’t, smacks Severus of Ministry interference. Or of Potter’s own attempt to ‘manage’ the news which seems preposterous indeed since the Savior has never bothered to do such a thing in his life.

There is nothing in the morning Prophet. Nothing in The Quibbler either. Nothing in Witch Fucking Weekly. Severus combs through them all with mounting incredulity, and cannot figure out what the hell is going on. This isn’t what he wants. He is grateful that his good name hasn’t been thoroughly dragged through the mud yet, but there won’t be a visible change in the way the public views former members of his Hogwarts’ house if there is no conversation whatsoever about it. What’s the point of befriending Potter if his every unsuitable companion becomes ‘invisible’ in the eyes of the press? Severus is distressed beyond words.

He contacts both Blaise and Draco via Floo, and their attempt to brainstorm together is doomed from the start. They don’t have enough information. Can not tell where the chain that links the moment a journalist comes across his first inkling of a possible salacious scandal involving the most influential figure of their time and the moment it gets printed in neon-bright letters across every front page in existence broke, or why. Blaise doesn’t know what to think. It seems too invasive an action for the Ministry to have taken on Potter’s behalf over so small an issue. Particularly when they’d been prepared to risk the boy’s career on a technicality that wouldn’t have held water unless they were willing -and able- to spin Severus’s war-time spy status in the right light. Draco is of the opinion that the news vacuum is Potter’s doing. But then Draco has always delighted in blaming Potter for everything. Severus ends the call feeling thoroughly frustrated with his godson and more confused than ever.

Severus spends a good portion of his morning pacing restlessly from his kitchen to his laboratory and finally settles on writing a quick letter to Emille Bollingfrog informing him of the progress he’s made with the charm he is designing for the man’s upcoming bone cure. He has finally narrowed his work to three different versions of the spell, two of which could easily be tweaked to apply to different levels in the strength of the treatment they’d deliver. The third one is a more advanced option, one that builds on a rather ancient variation of the Stupefy hex to create a spell that, in theory, will put the patient to sleep for the duration of the treatment, thus sparing him -or her- the added discomfort brought on by the healing itself. Severus hopes that this particular version of his charm will be approved for use on worst-case scenarios. Victims of magical blasts. Dragon tamers who’ve run afoul of the creatures they look after. Aurors injured in the line of duty as a result of Dark Magic—

Severus’s train of thought is interrupted by a loud knock on his door, and he pulls his quill away from his neatly written parchment. He’d have to start his letter all over again if a stray drop of ink drops onto the vellum. It takes him a mere blink to realize that Potter is at his door. The boy’s distinctive knocking feels loud and disruptive in the otherwise peaceful quiet of Severus’s abode. He places his quill on the stand beside the inkwell, pulls his chair away from the desk, and walks out of his office just as the brat knocks again.

Potter is an impatient soul, Severus realizes as he descends the stairs. The Auror knocks at least twice more by the time Severus opens his front door, and they stare at one another across the threshold. Potter looks unjustifiably startled, bearing in mind that he is the one demanding attention, and his opening salvo isn’t auspicious either, “You’ve answered the door.”

Severus doesn’t like the implications behind that simple sentence. “I told you I would. I’m a man of my word, Potter.”

“I know. I just— It’s hard to reconcile what my head says you’d do with what experience has taught me. I’ve never been on this side of the equation.”

“Here we go again,” Severus grumbles unhappily. “Do you have any plans to make sense sometime soon? Contrary to what you seem to believe, I don’t enjoy solving riddles.”

“I mean I’ve never been part of the group of people you make an effort to please. I’ve always been on the other side. Things look different from here.”

Severus rolls his eyes. Potter is melodramatic as well as impatient then. He supposes he’s always known that. Merlin knows the brat’s teenage years were tinged with enough drama to make half the staff at Hogwarts feel like tearing their hair out in Potter-related frustration. Draco’s adolescent angst felt like a walk in the park compared to the savior's, and his godson had to deal with the horror of having the Dark Lord living under his roof at the time. “Shouldn’t you be pacing up and down the lane instead of bothering me with nonsense?”

“I need to talk to you. Will inviting me in make you break out in hives?”

Severus’s suspicious nature rears its wary head. “It might. Are you here in an official capacity?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you may not come in.”

Potter gapes. “Why on earth not? I thought we’re trying to be friends!”

“It’s too soon,” Severus replies stiffly. “I’ve never been the sort of man who goes from public tea-sharing to kitchen table encounters in under twenty-four hours, Potter.”

For some reason, Potter blushes furiously and mumbles something under his breath that Severus comes to the conclusion he can’t have heard correctly, because there’s not a chance in hell the brat actually said ‘I wish,’ is there?

“Fine! Can I at least conjure a couple of garden chairs? We could sit under the shade of the almond tree over there for a couple of minutes.”

Severus manfully resists his instinctive urge to deny that request too. He fails to point out that he owns a small bistro table, which is currently laden with a variety of seedlings waiting their turn to be planted, courtesy of Pomona Sprout. The table is in the back garden, which is too private a space for them to share at this point. His small patio is a comforting mess of carefully tended blooms housed in brightly-colored potted containers, and a ratty old hammock dangling between a pair of Rowan trees where Severus reads sometimes. There are all sorts of expensive and rare potion ingredients growing back there. Severus sincerely doubts Potter remembers enough about such things to steal a petal or two, but he’s worked his hands to the bone trying to coax some of those delicate plants into putting up with the terrible British weather, and has no intention whatsoever of exposing them to the gormless gawking of a virtual stranger, regardless of how heroic he may be.

“Conjure away, Mr. Potter.” He agrees calmly, taking care to close the door behind himself when he follows the Auror towards the almond tree. Potter’s attempt at transfiguring garden chairs out of twin blades of grass is at best utilitarian and at worst uninspired. He’d have gotten better results if he’d chosen a discarded tree branch as his base. Chairs are usually made out of wood. It’s easier to create like from like in all things. Magic tends to follow nature when allowed.

Potter plonks his creations on the small patch of shaded grass under the foot of the tree and waits politely for Severus to sit first. They stare at one another once again until Severus clears his throat in utter frustration.

“I like it here. It’s peaceful.” Potter says, apropos of nothing.

“Get on with it.” Severus snaps impatiently. “I’m halfway through writing a letter, and the ink won’t look even if it dries for much longer.”

“Your hedge is back to its former height.”

“So?”

“Did it offend you that much when I called out to you from the lane? I didn’t do it out of malice. Seeing the hedge’s extra length the following morning felt like a slap to the face.”

Severus swallows with discomfort. He’d meant it to feel that way. “I wanted nothing to do with you then.”

“But you changed your mind.”

“Yes.”

“Will you change it again?”

“I don’t know, Potter. I hope not. But we may have nothing in common. Or be naturally incapable of understanding one another. No one can wish friendship into being. It either grows on fertile soil, or it doesn’t.”

“Our tea date drew a bit of unwanted attention. I had to pull a bunch of strings to bury the story for a few hours.”

“I thought you wanted attention,” Severus says calmly. “It was your suggestion to avoid keeping our stumbling attempts at friendship under wraps.”

“I want the sort of attention that’ll help you. The sort that you deserve. That’s not what the press planned to print.”

“Planned?”

“I convinced them to delay the story by promising to release a statement about our outing. It’ll go out tonight in a special edition. You’re about to become— newsworthy.”

Severus doesn’t like how carefully Potter tiptoes around the issue. It makes him unnecessarily nervous, and will probably end up giving him heartburn. “How bad will it be?”

“Not too bad, just annoying. They’ll try to hound you if they can. They shouldn’t be able to get near you because they signed a contract with the Ministry that makes it illegal for them to follow me around at work, and you happen to live here, but they’ll find a way around that eventually. You could always hide in Malfoy Manor for a couple of weeks.”

“Weeks? What sort of statement are you releasing, Potter? It’s not like I’m your long-lost brother. We only went out to tea!”

“I _like_ you. I want them to understand that. _You_ need them to understand that so they’ll start reassessing their crazy-arse idea that all surviving Slytherins are second-class citizens. I’m releasing a statement that’ll announce loud and clear that you are my hero. The man I look up to. You need to tell me now if that’s not something you wish to see in print.”

Severus finds himself gaping in disbelief like an uncouth barbarian. His jaw drops, his eyes bug out, and he has the horrifying suspicion that he’s blushing like a schoolgirl. His first thought is that this can’t be happening. He’s fallen asleep somehow and is currently drooling all over his formerly pristine letter to Emile Bollingfrog while having this peculiar dream.

“Snape?”

Or the person in front of him isn’t really Harry Potter but a bold and enterprising paparazzi —one who has somehow managed to acquire both a fresh dose of Poly-Juice and one of the savior’s hairs— and is currently trying to weasel a rather preposterous confession out of Severus.

“Hey, Snape!”

It’s also possible that this is indeed the savior, and he’s attempting to pull some odious little prank on him in the name of ‘growing closer.’ Severus understands that sort of thing is common among Gryffindors even though he finds the practice in poor taste. Why would a couple of otherwise perfectly sane individuals voluntarily decide to humiliate one another thus for the sake of ‘fun?’ Severus isn’t laughing, is he? Therefore he’s not having any fun-

“SNAPE!” Potter hollers in his face, making him jump like a rabbit, and then proceeds to stun Severus further by rubbing daring hands up and down his arms in a soothing gesture while begging in a panicked tone, “Please, say something. Anything. I need to know I didn’t break you.”

“When did you leave your chair?” Severus asks in confusion. “I don’t recall seeing you stand up.”

“You turned as pale as a ghost and looked a little weird ‘round the eyes, professor. I kept calling your name, but you didn’t respond. I thought you were going to faint.”

“I haven’t fainted in years.”

“That’s not true. You fainted when the fairies attacked you.”

“I lost consciousness due to blood loss. That’s not the same thing as fainting.”

Potter smiles weakly at him and stops rubbing his arms. Severus feels the instant loss of heat and is utterly confused by how bereft he feels now that Potter has unilaterally decided he no longer needs comforting. _‘Merlin, I must be more touch-starved than I realized if I’m missing Potter’s pity-induced arm rub.’_

“You must be feeling better if you’re dishing out snark.”

“At least I dish out the truth.” Severus points out stiffly as he watches the brat retake his seat.

“You’re accusing me of planning to lie to the press?”

“Aren’t you?”

“It’s not a lie.”

“An exaggeration then.”

“Are you implying I should let them rip your character to shreds instead?”

“Of course not. I just— It’s a pretty unbelievable story. And it’ll come out of left field.”

“Ah! You’re worried no one will believe it.”

“I wouldn’t buy it for a second, so why would anybody else?”

“You wouldn’t buy it because you’re annoyingly obtuse when it comes to human emotions, Snape. Trust me, this is going to spin beautifully. My last -and most public- argument with Voldypants was about you. The first thing I did after turning him to dust was return to the Shrieking Shack so I could collect your dead body personally, but ended up saving your life instead. I visited you while you were recovering in the infirmary, and tried to do the same when they locked you up in Azkaban. I spoke for you at your trial. I threw a hissy fit of epic proportions when I went back to Hogwarts to complete my education and found out you’d given up teaching. I’m guarding your bloody neighborhood.”

“You’re attempting to imply much with very little, Potter. Your pretty picture is merely a bunch of artfully arranged circumstances with no substance to them whatsoever. It’ll all tumble down at the first blow.”

“It won’t. I promise.”

“Fair enough. Spin your tale in any way you see fit. They already think me a liar. What you’re putting on the line is your reputation, not mine.”

Potter studies him intently for a long time. Severus has the feeling the boy wants him to say something, to ask something, but he has no earthly idea of what that elusive something might be. He’s under the impression that he’s managed to disappoint Potter somehow, and doesn’t like the feeling in the slightest. Severus has had enough of being found wanting.

“Could I have a candid picture of you?” Potter asks, startling Severus into narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Whatever for?”

“I don’t want them to dig up some horrible old shot from the war. Or worse, the trials. They have some pictures of our tea date. You look a bit stiff in them, but they aren’t too bad. I want to give the editors something else to focus on. Something— softer.”

“I don’t do soft, Potter.”

The bloody brat has the actual balls to laugh in his face. “Liar, liar, pants on fi-

“I’m afraid I cannot help you. I don’t go around taking pictures of myself.”

“Is there anyone who does?”

“Minerva indulges in that sort of sentimentality sometimes. And Draco is quite fond of the latest ‘Sna-pict’ charm. A few of my former Slytherin students delight in catching me unawares whenever there is a gathering. Pansy, Daphne, Gregory… they’re all reasonably good options.”

“Do I have your permission to contact them?”

“Do as you wish. This is your lie to spin.”

“It’s not a lie,” Potter says firmly, looking right at him and taking his breath away with those famous green eyes that appear so bloody earnest. Severus doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all. Eventually, Potter sighs and bids him goodbye. Severus sits on his conjured garden chair for a very long time indeed, pondering about tangled webs, and weaving.  
  
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	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16.**

The special edition of The Prophet arrives in a flutter of wings. The bird who delivers it is the same frazzled bugger who does his morning rounds and is, therefore, familiar enough with Severus’s moods to curl a razor-sharp claw around the newspaper roll and hold onto it until Severus offers a slightly dried-up owl treat in payment for its services. The beast hoots at him indignantly and drops the paper on the floor instead of aiming for Severus’s expectantly open palm. Severus huffs in amusement and slams his window closed behind the cantankerous owl. He stands beside the windowpane for a second, looking out towards the darkening lane. The sky looks like a purple bruise this evening and, as he looks down towards the rolled-up pages at his feet, Severus sincerely hopes it’s a coincidence and not some portentous omen foreshadowing what awaits him.

Potter’s statement is a work of art. It’s short and to the point. A brief description of the bakery, explaining he’d chosen it because Severus is fond of cranberry-flavored baked goods, and that place happens to offer truly lovely fruit scones in its menu. They’d shared three pots of tea and about two hours of casual conversation before parting ways. Yes, Potter is aware of Severus’s war-time reputation. Yes, he’s seen the Dark Mark Severus still carries on his arm with his own eyes. He has also been inside Severus’s head and seen some of his memories. Severus Snape is a decorated war hero. A man Potter admires deeply. There is no former member of The Order Of The Phoenix who, in Potter’s estimation, can compete with Severus Snape for bravery. They are friends, and that’s all there is to it. He reminds them all that Severus is a very reserved man, and urges the general public to respect his privacy.

The article is expertly titled ‘Harmony Across The Lines?’ It features the expected picture of the outing itself, and Severus can plainly see his stiff figure sitting across from Potter’s far more relaxed one. The brat’s clever allusion to Severus’s reserved nature will act as de facto explanation for Severus’s obvious discomfort in the shot, particularly when compared to the other photograph of him. The image shows Severus laughing. He is dressed casually in dark slacks, and a soft, green, pullover jumper with the sleeves pushed up high enough to display the bottom half of the Dark Mark branded onto his left forearm. His long hair is tied haphazardly in a ponytail, and the reading glasses he never wears in public perch precariously on the very tip of his nose. He is barefooted, pale toes curled in the deep pile of Minerva’s colorful fireside rug, and feet half-buried under the veritable sea of ripped wrapping paper that’s collected at the base of his chair. A small Christmas tree brightens the left-hand corner of the image, and portraits of long-dead Hogwarts’ headmasters hang from the walls, their prestigious inhabitants looking down in amusement at a Severus Snape who is clearly busy trying to stifle his laughter and hold up a pair of truly atrocious socks for the photographer’s benefit at the same time.

Severus knows precisely when this picture was taken, and he can’t believe it’s here, gracing the front page of The Prophet’s special edition, so carelessly exposing him to the entire world’s derision. The worst part is that he’s got no one to blame, save himself. Potter asked his permission to do this. It’s not the brat’s fault, nor Minerva’s, that Severus failed to realize the true scope of the savior’s strategy. In a single masterstroke, Potter has turned a former Death Eater into a man of flesh and blood. Now Severus has no mask to hide behind.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17.**

The fallout of the special edition article is immediate and overwhelming. Everyone wants a piece of Potter’s hero, the version of Severus Snape who once sat in the office of the Hogwarts’ Headmistress and laughed himself silly upon receiving ugly socks for Christmas. There’s hardly any mention of his war-time misdeeds in the barrage of articles that follow and, whenever they are brought up, the journalists use them to illustrate his courage and dedication to the side of the light, rather than as proof irrefutable that he must have a dark and hardened heart. Severus finds himself being ‘popular’ for the first time in his life and doesn’t really know how to cope with it, so he hides inside his cottage and stops accepting post from unfamiliar owls.

Nathaniel doesn’t understand what the hoo-ha is all about, but he was so proud of Severus for being in the newspaper, _‘just like_ _Harry_ _,’_ that his enthusiasm brought the first genuine smile to Severus’s stressed features since the first article was printed. Blaise is jumping up for joy, and so is Daphne. Draco has reported the slightly disturbing news that someone asked him about ‘the lovely man who drinks tea with Harry Potter’ all the way in bloody Germany, and Severus’s last Firewhiskey Friday with Minerva had been peppered with her revoltingly satisfied smug expression and vague allusions to his now apparently indisputable achievement of ‘tempting’ Potter. Everyone seems to have forgotten that Severus Snape isn’t a ‘lovely man’ at all. He is a dammed petty bastard who holds grudges like a miser and has murdered more people in cold blood than anyone currently outside of Azkaban should be able to claim.

None of that matters anymore. The public simply adores him. That stupid picture of his has been doing the rounds since it first came out, and Severus is positively tired of seeing it printed every-bloody-where these days. A witch had even asked him to sign one the last time he’d dared to set foot in Diagon Alley.

Potter hasn’t made a single reference to the special edition article after his initial question of ‘All right?’ the day after it was published. The Gryffindor hasn’t mentioned the distressingly intense scrutiny the media is currently attempting to submit Severus to either. Everything Severus does is newsworthy now. He can no longer purchase a simple loaf of bread from his local grocer without it making front-page news the next day, and it’s getting on his nerves.

Today they’re slated to show their faces out in public once again, and Severus is simply dreading it. The savior is right, though, Severus can’t keep hiding at home. They’ve got to seize the momentum that Potter’s clever stunt has created, so they’re going out to dinner with Granger, Bollingfrog and, to Severus’s never-ending relief, Draco. He’d never expected Potter to agree to his demand that they make room for his godson in the outing, but the Gryffindor had taken a single look at his mulish expression and agreed with a quiet “Of course Malfoy can come,” and a soft look in his eyes.

Severus is fiddling nervously with the crisp cuff of his formal robes when the open Floo whooshes loudly, and a perfectly groomed Draco Malfoy steps out into his living room. The boy straightens at once and aims a lazily cast Vanishing Charm at the stray flecks of soot that cling to the unexpectedly casual shirt he’s chosen for the evening.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Draco’s affronted question has the unfortunate side effect of making Severus instantly stiffen in ruffled affront.

“Clothes?” He snaps sharply, looking down at himself and wondering what’s wrong with his robes. They’re perfectly suitable for dinner at a posh restaurant. Why, Severus wore this exact ensemble to the reception celebrated in his honor when the Société Internationale Des Potions Magiques had presented him with his most recent professional award, six months ago.

“I can see that, godfather. What I want to know is why you’ve picked those robes in particular. They make you look like a stuffy librarian. Or a former potions professor. You’re not spending the evening patrolling Hogwarts' corridors. You’re supposedly heading to a relaxing dinner with friends.”

Severus forces himself to take a very deep breath. “This is what I normally wear when I go out with friends, Draco.”

“No. It isn’t. This isn’t how you dress when you come to the manor for dinner, or meet with us at the club. This is your professor’s armor, Severus, and it’s the exact opposite of what you should wear tonight.”

“Everything else is— I’m going to look too much like I do in that damned picture.”

“So?” Draco asks, his perfectly drawn eyebrows climbing almost to his hairline.

“I won’t feel comfortable. Our companions for the evening are virtual strangers. I’m not at ease around them, and I don’t want them to see me like that.”

“They’ve already seen you like that. And they can’t ‘unsee’ it, godfather. The public wants the man in that picture, and you have to give him to them. You’ve come too far down this path to turn around now.”

“I can’t fake that sort of ease when I don’t feel it.”

“You don’t have to fake anything. You just have to let yourself be. The press didn’t fall madly in love with some made-up illusion, Severus. They fell madly in love with _you_.”

“You have your mother’s gift with words, boy,” Severus grumbles and heads towards the stairs with the intention of going up to his bedroom to exchange his formal robes for something a tad more casual.

“Why don’t you wear the purple shirt I bought for your last birthday? It should make your pale skin glow like moonlight.”

Severus halts halfway up the stairs and looks toward Draco with horrified trepidation. “Why in the bloody hell would I want to wear a shirt that makes my skin glow like fucking moonlight when every paparazzi worth its salt is bound to be stalking the place, camera at the ready?”

Draco has the gall to laugh, brightly, delightedly, greedily. “Because those pictures will sell newspapers by the hundreds. And they, in turn, will make the world fall even more deeply in love with you: Harry Potter’s hero. The best man he knows. A teacher. A spy. An ex-Death Eater. A _Slytherin_. And while the world thinks its only learning to adore _you_ , in reality, its learning to adore _all_ of us.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18.**

“Look, another one,” Potter says, sotto voce, as they walk past the third wizard ambling around Diagon Alley dressed in an exact copy of the purple shirt Severus wore to their dinner with Bollingfrog and Granger.

“Merlin. How is this my life now?” Severus grumbles, feeling his cheeks heat anew with the embarrassment that every new sighting brings him. In the days that followed that accursed dinner, the press went crazy over the purple shirt Severus had worn that night. He had been horrified to find out -via The Prophet- that the store Draco bought the thing from is now out of that particular item and taking pre-orders from ‘a number of disappointed wizards.’ Draco finds the entire situation amusing and is threatening to buy him another shirt, a phoenix-bird red one this time, just to see what sort of unholy hoo-ha such item will unleash. Potter, the fiend, hasn’t stopped smirking. He’s teased Severus to within an inch of his life about the picture the papers published the day after that bloody dinner, alongside a little footnote that extolled the virtues of Severus’s sharp cheekbones, and waxed lyric about how his dark hair contrasts beautifully with his pale skin, especially when he wears bold colors.

“Stop teasing me, Potter, or I swear I’ll hex your mouth shut,” Severus growls as they finally make it into Flourish&Blotts. The boy is daring enough to snort, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs with delighted glee.

“You should see your face. It’s like someone’s making you suck on a lemon every time you spot a new bloke wearing that shirt.”

“It’s embarrassing. I’m not used to being imitated unless it’s an act of mockery.”

“That’s not why they’re doing it, Snape.”

“I know, but it’s still a struggle to remember that. I’m a product of my past experiences, boy. And those are hard enough to overcome without throwing a thoroughly unexpected case of society-wide hero-worship into the mix."

“Welcome to my life, professor. I was a little nobody before setting foot in the Wizarding World. I went from Harry Potter, loser, to Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, in a twenty-four-hour span. It was very disorienting. At least you’re older, and can hide inside your cottage whenever you’re overwhelmed.”

“You think hiding in my cottage can save me from Draco’s merciless teasing? From _Minerva’s_?” Severus asks, incredulous.

“They can’t be pestering you that much,” Potter laughs, studying him intently as Severus rejects the help of a store clerk with a firm shake of his head. Severus hasn’t been physically in the store in almost seven years, he’s bought most things via catalog since the end of the war, just like every other Slytherin out there. Today Severus intends to window-shop shamelessly and bask in the dearly missed atmosphere of this book-laden paradise. The store is exactly as Severus remembers. Better, maybe, because he is here now. And he will come back again.

“Of course they are, Potter. Those two love nothing better than to watch me squirm.”

“I doubt that very much. They both love you something fierce. They’re more likely to hex blind anyone who dares to make fun of you than to join in on the joke.”

“You forget that this isn’t a joke. None of the men currently buying that thrice-accursed shirt is doing it to humiliate me. It’s some sort of bizarre tribute. They’re trying to show appreciation. Draco and Minerva are tickled pink, and so amused by my discomfort in the face of the public’s positive attention that they can’t resist poking fun at me.”

Potter runs a distracted fingertip down the spine of a thick Arithmancy tome. “I liked him. Malfoy, I mean. I’ve always liked McGonagall, but I thought he was a right plonker when we were at school. He isn’t, though. I’d promised myself I’d punch his nose bloody if he so much as dared to sneer at Hermione during dinner, but he was charming and witty. A perfect fucking gentleman. He is nothing like I thought he’d be. I bet none of them are.”

Severus grabs the latest edition of Poisons For Proficient Potioneers and cracks it open, studying the index intently as he points out as nonchalantly as he can: “You forgot to include me in that list. You used to think I was a right plonker too.”

“But I already know you aren’t,” Potter says softly. “I’ve learned a lot about you in the last couple of years. It’s the other Slytherins I know nothing about, and I’m starting to realize that’s a crying shame. We’re missing out on a great bunch of people, aren’t we, professor? Every one of them is bright and enterprising, and could have helped us move forward a lot faster, but we never gave them the chance.”

Severus looks up from his book, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He feels suddenly weak at the knees, struggling to breathe under the heavy weight of the sheer amount of hope alighting upon his shoulders. “It’s not too late to give them that chance, Potter.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. And I’m not the only one. Rumor has it that Parkinson is behind the sudden increase in the efficiency of the French version of St. Mungo’s care management program for the elderly. They’ve been trying to do the same thing here but, so far, it’s been a total disaster. I told Padma the other day to stop dragging her bloody feet about it and make Parkinson an offer she can’t possibly refuse. Why should the French benefit from her expertise in healthcare management?”

“Because they trained her when no Magical British University would accept her? Because they hired her when St. Mungo’s failed to do so? Slytherins don’t take bullying sitting down. If British Wizarding society brushes us off, we look for success somewhere else.”

“Isn’t that a bit petty?”

“Petty? No. This is what being cunning and ambitious means. It has nothing to do with plotting to take over the world. It’s about getting back on your feet when everyone pushes you down. It’s about surviving long enough to have the last laugh. We, Slytherins, like to prove our points, and we despise giving up.”

“You’ve proved your point all right. We’re stagnating in the sort of fields your lot usually takes over. Other European countries are starting to flourish in them instead, and that’s because they’re employing the people we shun here. It’s time to bring all that talent back. We are weaker without it.”

Severus tries to swallow the huge lump that’s attempting to settle in the middle of his throat, but he doesn’t manage it entirely. He looks down, towards the book still grasped in his hands, lest his gaze betray the depth of his emotions at the moment. Recognition is a heady thing indeed, and to have it now, to hear it stated so openly, is a gift he wasn’t expecting to receive so early into their friendship. He can’t wait to tell the kids, especially Pansy. She’ll start cackling round the corners when she hears that young Miss. Patil is going to have to swallow the nasty words she wrote in the letter she’d sent to Pansy two years ago, informing her of St. Mungo's decision to reject her job application. "Those are very mature thoughts, Potter," he says carefully and ends up having to look up at the boy when he hears him snort.

“That’s not maturity talking, Snape. It’s desperation. We need them more than they need us, I’d wager.”

Severus hums noncommittally and walks towards the end of the aisle, fingertips catching on the stiff leathery spines of the books along the way. “It’s always good to be recognized at home. They studied here. They live here. Most of them would love to marry, and settle, here. Necessity isn’t the only motivator out there.”

“I know that too,” the brat says, following him down the aisle like a faithful shadow. Severus shivers at the sudden gruffness of the Auror’s voice, at the unfamiliar feeling of Potter’s breath crashing against his shoulder-blade. They reach the end of the narrow corridor and Severus has nowhere else to go. He looks forward blindly, dark gaze catching sight of gold-embossed titles relating to magical creatures such as Gryphons and the Antipodean Opaleye. He’s got no interest in that sort of thing. No earthly excuse to be here. But turning around will bring him face to face with Harry Potter, will cut this strange instant short, and he’s inexplicably reluctant to do so. Potter has the sort of presence other men can’t ignore. Severus feels him breathing quietly behind him, filling the space at his back like a protective shield, and can’t help the thought that no one has tried to shelter him from anything in far too long. Severus doesn’t need protecting, of course, but the feeling is still nice. Still novel enough to intrigue him and make him wonder what having it round the clock would feel like.

“Victoire doesn’t have that one yet,” Potter says, pointing at a small and colorful book in the corner, “Maybe I should buy it for her.” Severus reaches out and pulls the slim tome off the shelf. It’s a picture book about unicorns geared towards small children. He flips curiously through it and comes to the conclusion that the art is absolutely gorgeous.

“I’m sure she’d be delighted. The images are exquisite. She’s a lucky girl, your Victoire.” Severus says softly, turning around just enough to pass the book to Potter. Their fingertips brush briefly, and the Auror flashes him a smile that’s bright like sunshine before dropping his gaze downward bashfully.

“She’s not mine. But she’s special all right.” Potter laughs,” I think Nathaniel would like her.”

Severus stands there, trapped in that cool and quiet corner of Flourish&Blotts with The Boy Who Lived, and suddenly realizes something horrifying: Potter is kind. Genuinely, charmingly, kind. And Severus has the most terrible weakness for kind people. It’s what once drove him to Regulus. To Lily. And to Albus. It’s what keeps him coming back to Minerva, and what makes him put up with Hagrid’s ridiculous nonsense, even though he finds the giant’s tendency to ‘domesticate’ lethal creatures on the school’s grounds beyond frustrating. Kind people often break Severus’s heart, and he’s had more than enough of that already.

“He might. Nathaniel has a generous soul. He likes almost everyone.”

“Everyone except for Bryce Hillen.” Potter reminds him, “I had a few words with that boy after I took Nate to Hogwarts. The Hillen kid is a waist-high jackass. I’ll give you this much, Snape: you have a fine nose indeed for picking up the right pupils. Nathaniel is kind, clever, and can spot a nasty bastard a mile away. He has excellent taste in people.”

Severus hums, wondering what the Gryffindor expects him to do with such roundabout compliment. “Would your Victoire like Mr. Hillen? The boy is popular with the rest of the kids in Sunlit Lane, especially the girls.” Severus says in the end, waving a hand in the direction of the main floor to indicate his desire to leave the cramped side-aisle.

“Nah. She’ll despise him on sight.” Potter laughs, instantly responding to Severus’s queue and heading towards the till, “Chances are she’ll never meet him. Victoire lives in France. She’ll go to Beauxbatons when she is of age.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy enough there. Beauxbatons is a wonderful school. Draco was supposed to attend. Lucius thought that’d strengthen the boy’s ties with the French side of the family, but Narcissa put her foot down. She wanted to keep her son close. Sometimes I wish Lucius never caved to her desires. Draco would have been safer on the continent.”

“Hey,” Potter turns around to face him, curls a tanned and calloused hand around the ball of Severus’s bony shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. “At least he wasn’t alone at Hogwarts. You were there with him every step of the way.”

Severus would have snorted indelicately if he wasn’t busy feeling vulnerable. He finds Potter’s kindness disarming, and it terrifies him. Severus doesn’t want Potter to become one of his terrible weaknesses. Potter isn’t a Slytherin, a cantankerous elder, or a child. Potter is heroic, attractive, straight. He is also madly in love with a motherly sort and twenty years Severus’s junior. Allowing himself to become—aware of the boy will only lead to disaster. “I think it’s time I head home.” He says quietly, choosing to retreat from this moment that feels too much like the sort of profound emotional connection no sane person would attempt to share with a mere friend. The boy’s hand drops away ever so slowly, alongside the brightness of that lovely smile of his.

“I was planning to head over to the Leaky for a spot of dinner after this, but maybe we can share a quick pint if you’re short on time.”

“Not today. I’ve been up since four-thirty, and I’m exhausted.”

“Tomorrow then?” The boy insists. “Tom has this new menu that rotates different sorts of food depending on the day of the week. Saturdays is Sweet&Sour Surprise. I ate an awesome shrimp dish on my first go, and the most horrendous Brussels-sprout concoction on my second. The hit and miss element is part of the experience. What say you, Snape? Fancy joining me on a gastronomic adventure?”

Severus laughs despite himself when the boy wriggles his eyebrows. “Fine. I’ll risk Tom’s Sweet&Sour Surprise. But if I die of food poisoning, my ghost will haunt you forever.”

“Stop whining. You’ll be fine,” Potter swats him playfully on the arm, and Severus allows himself to enjoy the banter as Potter steps towards the till to pay for the unicorn picture book. This is what he wants: simple, easy, uncomplicated friendship. And he can have it. He just needs to be wary of the boy’s charming kindness, and that should be easy enough to do now that he’s identified it as a potential problem.

“Goodnight, Potter. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Severus bides the Auror goodbye once they’ve stepped outside the store and reached the closest apparition point.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow. ‘Round Seven?”

“Seven will be fine. I’ll meet you there.” Severus replies and watches Potter’s smile grow warm and delighted.

“You’ll love it. You’ll see,” Potter says, taking a step back and flapping his right hand wildly in farewell. “Night, night, Snape.”

The Auror Apparates away before Severus can respond, or wave his hand back, but he doesn’t truly mind. Severus likes the casualness of this friendship of theirs. Likes their simple interactions and the ease that’s slowly growing between them. He genuinely likes the man Harry Potter has become. Who would have thought it?


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19.**

Severus has never in his life been faced with a plate full of sweet and sour radishes. He stares at the artfully displayed meal, wide-eyed, and isn’t one hundred percent certain that he wants to dip his fork in that mess, let alone put any of it inside his mouth. Potter, the incorrigible fiend, is laughing himself breathless on the other side of the table, growing purpler in the face with every passing second, but clearly in no hurry to regain either control or dignity.

“You lied to me, Potter,” Severus grumbles, still examining the contents of his plate with trepidation. “You told me I’d love this, but I’m not loving it at all. This food looks disgusting, and I doubt it’ll taste any good.”

“Come on, Snape. You can’t leave the plate untouched. Where is your sense of adventure?”

“Back home, waiting patiently for me in my kitchen, where I should be cooking something properly edible for myself instead of sitting here with you facing a plateful of _this_.”

Potter leans eagerly forward and plops an elbow on each side of his plate like a savage. Severus glares at the spots where those offending joints meet the scratched tabletop, only for the brat to dig them further in with an obnoxious little wriggle. “You can cook then. I wasn’t sure. I thought you might have a house-elf.”

“I had one. Lispy died in the battle of Hogwarts. I haven’t the heart to replace her.”

“I’m sorry,” Potter says quietly. “I lost Hedwig towards the end of the war. I haven’t replaced her either.”

“I heard. Hagrid was inconsolable. Am I to understand that he gave you the bird as a gift?”

“Yes. He did. Hedwig was the first proper birthday gift I ever received. My relatives weren’t keen on wasting their money on me.”

“I see,” Severus says, tone low and deep, weighed down by the pain of a million unwanted memories of his own childhood. Minerva is right about this. They’re both remarkably similar in many ways, and they shouldn’t have been. Potter should have been spoiled rotten by Black after his parents died. Albus had been aware that Pettigrew was an animagus. He should have looked deeper into the rat’s apparent murder, but he hadn’t. Knowing what he knows now, Severus wonders if his old mentor failed to investigate further on purpose. He’d needed Potter to grow up with the mindset of an abuse victim.

“It was hard,” Potter says softly, heartbreak clear in his gaze. “Especially in the beginning. I didn’t know how to keep going after losing so many.”

“Surviving is harder than dying, Potter. But we were ‘blessed’ with that gift so we must bear it.” Severus remarks reluctantly. He isn’t particularly keen on pursuing this topic, but can’t think of a polite enough way to divert the conversation towards more pleasant grounds.

“Do you remember what happened at the end of Lucius Malfoy’s trial?”

“You mean when my childhood best friend lost his bloody mind and managed to disarm an Auror with the intention of committing suicide in plain view of his thoroughly distressed wife and war-traumatized child?”

“I was on the other side of the room when the ruckus started. I tried to get closer, but it was hard to move around so many panicking wizards. I had almost reached Malfoy when you finally made it to his side. Gosh! I can’t forget the expression on his face when you punched him so hard he fell to the floor, and took the wand out of his hand. It was so bloody funny.”

“He still hasn’t forgiven me for that,” Severus says quietly.

“Well, he’s the proud sort, isn’t he?”

“True. He didn’t take kindly to being ‘defeated’ by muggle means, either. Lucius can be a terrible snob.”

“At least he’s a snob who is alive. I bet, deep down, he is grateful you didn’t let him kill himself in front of his family. He’ll have plenty of time with them after he comes out of Azkaban.”

“They all look forward to that. Despite appearances to the contrary, the Malfoys are a tightly-knit family.”

“Can I tell you something?” Potter asks and then proceeds to take a deep breath and rush forth without waiting for Severus’s answer, “There is something about that morning that has stuck with me all this time. It’s not the punch you threw or the look on Malfoy’s face, but the words you used. You were so mad at him. Do you remember?”

“I do,” Severus says hoarsely, feeling anew the unbearable weight of the sorrow that had taken hold of him back then. “I didn’t know anyone other than Lucius himself had heard me.”

“I was right behind him, Snape. If it’s any consolation, I doubt anybody else heard you tell him that you’d break if he forced you to lose another friend. I’d never seen you cry before. Not in real life, at least. Memories don’t count when it comes to that sort of thing.”

“I’m happy to inform you that I haven’t cried since.” Severus forces himself to say and, lifting the goblet of red wine he’d ordered with his meal, drains half its contents in one go.

“You were right, you know? I think most of us had reached our breaking point by then. I hadn’t realized I’d walked right past mine until you said that to Malfoy. I’d lost too many friends too, and I couldn’t lose one more. I couldn’t force Ron or Hermione to lose me either. I had to make sure I’d be around to watch little Teddy Lupin grow up. I— you changed my life at that moment, Snape.”

“Is that why you waste your training wandering around perfectly safe neighborhoods instead of chasing dark wizards with the rest of Dawlish’s crew?” Severus asks incredulously.

The disarming softness in Potter’s gaze retreats at once, hides behind a thickening veil of verdant disappointment as the Gryffindor fidgets in his seat. The boy attempts to ignore Severus’s question by picking up his fork and stuffing a giant heap of sweet and sour radishes inside his mouth and then spends an inordinately large amount of time chewing. Severus eventually glares him into answering defensively, “I’m not wasting my training. The Safe Neighborhood Program is a brilliant initiative.”

“Yes. It is. It’s also the perfect place to make sure recently graduated recruits learn the ropes of auroring in a relatively safe environment, and a rather cushy pre-retirement assignment. You’re neither a new recruit nor one who is past his prime. You’re The Bloody Boy Who Lived, Potter.”

“Blimey, you sound just like Dawlish.” Potter grumbles, ”I’ve done my bit, all right? Voldemort is no more. Now it’s time for someone else to hog the spotlight.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why? Because I’m tired of running around chasing evil? Because I want to ensure I do something equally worthwhile with my time, instead of risking life and limb in some faraway corner doing a job I’ll never enjoy doing just because I happened to rid the world of that stupid arsehole in a stroke of dumb luck?”

“If you don’t want to be an Auror then quit, you, idiot. There must be something else you can do. Just— what’s the point of doing a half job, Potter? It’s a bloody waste of time.”

“I like being an Auror. I like the idea of law and order. I just— there’s a darkness to the job I don’t enjoy. I also don’t want to- I _died_ in the forest, Snape. I came back, but I died. I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to put my loved ones through it if I can help it. I was frantic when I thought you—er- Shit. I shouldn’t go there. I’m sorry.”

“Potter, what in the name of-

“Dawlish wants me to join his goddamned task force, and Robbards has been trying to push me into it for a while too. Ron says its only a matter of time before they find a way to force the issue.”

“I’ve heard. I assume Inquisitor Prickard’s trumped-up little investigation failed to achieve it’s purpose then?”

Potter gapes in shock. “How do you even know about that? It’s supposed to be hush-hush.”

“I’m Slytherin, boy. We like to know exactly what goes on in the corridors of power.”

“Then I’d bet you know more than me. No one tells me anything anymore. They’re trying to bench me, and I’m trying to avoid it. One of these days something’s gonna give.”

“If you don’t want them to push you around, then leave. Otherwise, stop whining already and accept their generous offer. You can’t remain in limbo forever, Potter.” Severus says and scoops the smallest amount of food imaginable into his fork before putting it in his mouth. He chews it thoughtfully and comes to the conclusion that it isn’t as bad as it looks. He is not a fan, but he’s not revolted enough to run out of the Leaky, screaming.

“I don’t want to be a paper-pusher,” Potter says tightly and looks into Severus’s eyes with enough emotion to drown a mountain troll. Severus feels himself shiver, attention thoroughly snared.

“What do you want to be then?”

“I want to be _me._ I want to bask in this peace we’ve earned. I want to find love, find companionship. I want to belong. _”_

“Potter-

“ _Listen:_ I want to grow old in Sunlit Lane. I want to see our community grow stronger. I want wizards and witches to start venturing out into the streets once again because they finally feel safe enough to step outside their houses, and I can’t do any of that from a damned desk, Snape. The war cast a very long shadow, and we’re still struggling to step out of it.”

Severus feels every one of the boy’s impassioned words bury themselves in his skin like deadly arrows. His heartbeat picks up pace as he feels himself drawn to the savior’s dreams, to his desires. Potter’s simple wishes align with his own so perfectly that they may have very well plucked them from the same field of blossoms. They are alike indeed. Maybe _too_ alike. Minerva is right. She’s seen, clear as day, what Severus hadn’t spotted until now.

“You can never be merely yourself, boy. Not anymore. For good or ill, you are the Boy Who Lived Twice. There are battles still left to fight that only you can win. And you must fight them, or we’ll go back to where we started.”

“You mean this beef people have against the Slytherins? I’m doing that already, and it’s beginning to work. We’ll change their minds, you and I. We’re a good team when we fight together, and we’ll win, just like we did during the war.”

“But we never fought together back then, Potter. You didn’t trust me.” Severus points out, attempting to break himself free from the boy’s insidious pull.

Potter smiles at him wistfully and leans further into the table to whisper at him confidentially, “I trust you now. I’ll fight for you if you need me to, Snape, and I’ll fight beside you too if you let me.”

Severus inhales sharply. “That’s a very bold promise, Auror Potter. I hope you mean to keep it.”

“Oh, I’ll keep it. I’ve waited a bloody long time to become your knight in shiny armor, professor. You’re are a frustratingly uncooperative maiden in distress.”

“I’m not a maiden at all.”

“A prince then. A half-blood one, even.”

Severus snorts at the boy’s boldness even as he asks warily. “And what would you demand in return? I have little of value to give.”

“I want this,” Potter says, pointing back and forth between them, ”And I already have it. You don’t need to give me anything else.”

“You’re terrible at bargaining.” Severus shakes his head, “You give too much and demand too little.”

“Little? You sell yourself short, Master Snape.” Potter says softly, and this time, Severus is the one who uses the excuse of chewing a mouthful of food to avoid having to answer. Their conversation dwindles after that, and both of them finish their meals, contemplating their thoughts. Severus doesn’t know what’s going on inside the boy’s head, but his is swimming with confusion. Swimming with hope for a future that looms brighter for all, and with worry for the safety of his increasingly dazzled heart.

****  
  



	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20.**

Severus walks methodically alongside the edge of the woodland abutting Sunlit Lane. He’s been attempting to pinpoint the exact location that anchors the wards currently protecting the neighborhood from what used to be unchecked wilderness for about a week now and, to his absolute shock, hasn’t yet managed to do so. This is outstanding work indeed. Not subtle at all, but powerful. Whoever cast this set of wards wasn’t playing any games. Nothing, dead or alive, will get past them from the woodland side.

This is a huge inconvenience. There are all sorts of insects and small magical creatures living in the forest that are precious potion ingredients. Severus has had the virtual run of the place since he purchased his cottage and has not only saved a pretty sickle by collecting them wild, but also built himself a reasonable nest egg by adequately preparing the rarest of them and selling them to others. Now his chances of continuing to benefit thus from living so close to the woodland are being jeopardized by the peskily perfect ward that someone on the Ministry’s payroll cast after the Trooping Fairy debacle.

Severus understands why the authorities put up the ward. He recognizes that it is a good idea to have this sort of over the top protective barrier in place with the number of curious children currently living in the neighborhood. Severus is not trying to bring the ward down, he just wants to build himself a little backdoor that’ll allow him to bring home the basket full of Chizpurfles he’d spent four hours hunting down last Thursday. He can’t get them past the barrier. Not even using Apparition, or after transfiguring the lot into a row of extra-buttons for his robes. The only things that make it back through the Ministry ward are Severus’s basket and himself. Even the dust and dead grass that naturally collects on the soles of his boots can’t follow him home. He’d been forced to cast both Preserving and Notice-Me-Not charms on his loot and leave it under the huge oak tree he can plainly see from where he stands, but he can’t keep doing that indefinitely. The ingredients will rot eventually, and they are of no use to him on the other side of the barrier.

“What are you up to, professor? I’d have thought you’d be wary of this place.” Potter comments as he ambles closer.

“Why? Because a bunch of Trooping Fairies happened to give me a thorough thrashing around here?”

“Please don’t joke about that. They almost killed you.”

“The Ministry boxed them, Potter. You told me that yourself.”

“Another bunch of them could have settled nearby, and we’d be none the wiser.”

“So? Just because there could be another nest, doesn’t mean there is one. Or that the new lot is dangerous. Fairies don’t spend their every waking hour plotting to murder wizards.”

“Gosh! You are fearless. Why the fuck did that bloody hat put you in Slytherin?”

Severus laughs and shoots the boy an amused look from the corner of his eye. “Careful, Potter. You’re starting to sound like Albus.”

“I’ll be looking like him soon too. I’m starting to realize you’re the one who turned all his hair gray.”

“I did no such thing. His hair was already gray when I met him.”

Potter snorts inelegantly, and they look at one another, both smiling and at ease. Severus would have to be blind not to see how easily they connect when he forgets to panic about his growing appreciation of the brat’s gentle nature and allows their interactions to go wherever they want to. Potter is patient and kind when it comes to him. The savior responds to almost any situation with humor first, then with an earnest desire to understand. It’s pretty hard to rile Potter enough to turn a random encounter into an argument, and the fact that Severus managed it so easily in the past is sufficient proof that there has always been something about him that touches the savior deeply.

“Please tell me you’re not trying to get around this ward, Snape,” Potter demands after a second, his usually calm tone acquiring a gruff edge that Severus is distressed to discover has a thoroughly inappropriate effect on his composure.

“Then you should refrain from asking me questions you don’t want an honest answer to.”

Potter takes an agitated step forward. He is suddenly all clenching hands, tightened jaw and exasperated frustration. ”Why would you try such a thing? There could be _a_ _nything_ living out there!”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! _That_ is not the Forbidden Forest, boy. It’s a small little woodland in the middle of Surrey. What could possibly live there that would harm me?”

“Fairies, professor. Trooping. Bloody. Fairies.”

“That’s not-

“Banshees. Leprechauns. Venomous Tentaculas. Flesh-eating Slugs. Mandrakes. Chameleon Ghouls. Hinkypunks. Imps. Forest Fucking Trolls. You want me to keep going?”

Severus flinches on the receiving end of Potter’s unexpected anger. He can’t figure out why the savior is so upset about this, but it’s clear as day that they don’t see eye to eye on the matter. “You’re overreacting. You know that, don’t you, Potter?”

“And you’ve been out there already, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Severus confesses, and is beyond stunned to see the Savior of The Wizarding World shrink back as if he’s been slapped.

“You went out there on your own?”

“Of course I went on my own. I’m a fully trained wizard. I don’t need a babysitter.” Severus growls defensively.

“Sever—er Snape. I- Please. _Please_. I’m begging you. Don’t go back to the woodland by yourself.”

“There are a ton of useful insects out there.” Severus tries to explain. He is distressed by Potter’s extreme reaction to the knowledge that he’s already ventured into the forest and, even though Severus would have already hexed into next week any other bastard daring enough to challenge him so, his first instinct is to soothe the Gryffindor if he can.

Potter’s incredulous green gaze clashes with his. “You’re looking for potion ingredients?”

“Yes. There is a basket full of dead Chizpurfles waiting for me under that oak.” Severus points out the tree, grateful for the excuse to pull his eyes away from the boy’s. There is something deliciously heady about the weight of the brat’s gaze, about the way his voice has lowered. About the small, unconscious step closer Potter has just taken.

“I can bring it to you,” Potter says, but doesn’t move a single inch in the oak’s direction. Severus has the feeling the boy is waiting for their eyes to meet once more. For Severus to acknowledge something he can’t wrap his mind around. _‘What the fuck is going on?_ _Is Potter flirting with_ _me_ _? He can’t be._ _We_ _’re talking about_ _Chizpurfles, for Merlin’s sake!_ _Why do_ _I_ _feel so affected by a conversation that shouldn’t feel as heavy, as—_ _life-changing_ _, as_ _it does_ _?’_

“Snape?” Potter whispers his name once again, and Severus forces himself to look at him. The Auror is so close now that Potter’s breath lands in short, humid puffs across the side of Severus’s face. He frowns. The sensation should make him feel wary, but it does nothing of the sort. It makes his pulse beat erratically instead. It steals his breath away.

“What?” He asks quietly and almost jumps out of his skin when Potter’s hand raises ever so slowly, and a visibly trembling index finger dares to push away the lock of dark hair that’s fallen across his cheek.

“You have to promise me that you won’t go over there on your own anymore,” Potter requests softly, and Severus’s frame stiffens from head to toes. He jerks his head away, looking sideways towards the woodland, his lips thin with growing anger.

“Don’t try to manipulate me, boy. You’ve got no right to demand such a promise from me.”

“Please,” Potter begs, lifting his hands once again, as if he is aching to frame Severus’s face with them, but manages to restrain himself from bestowing the tender touch at the last second. “I promise to accompany you slimy-insect-gathering any time you want, just— swear you won’t go out there on your own. Please.”

Severus swallows past the growing lump firmly lodged in the middle of his throat. His gaze settles upon Potter’s still raised fingertips, wondering what their touch would have felt like if they’d dared to cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing idly against his cheeks. He feels himself blush fiercely and tries to look away, but finds himself unable to do so. Potter’s gaze is darkening by the second, gaining both weight and intensity with every blink of Severus’s eyelashes. The Auror shuffles even closer, uniform boots bumping gently against the soft leather of Severus’s ancient shoes, and Severus startles, panics, and takes a stumbling step back. Potter takes a deep, shuddering breath, looks towards the woods, and the moment vanishes like a snowflake in sunlight.

“You’ll bring me the basket?” Severus asks after a moment and curses his skittish clumsiness when he is forced to watch the boy square his shoulders and take a deep breath before Potter even tries to look him in the eye. Their gazes collide anew, green on black; increasingly calm versus completely poleaxed. The brat has the gall to smile tightly, and something that feels a hell of a lot like blooming arousal begins to unfurl in the pit of Severus’s stomach. This isn’t the smile of a boy. Or a Gryffindor. This is the smile of a man who knows how to bargain, and Severus suddenly finds himself weak at the knees.

“You have to promise me first, Snape. You either collect your ingredients with me as your chaperon from now on, or I leave you here to fiddle with that ward until the cows come home.”

“You think I can’t spell in a back door? I’m a fucking ward expert, Potter.”

“You won’t get past this one because I was the one who cast it. Trust me when I say I put all my magical might behind it. Nothing that’s currently on the other side of that ward will get near you this side of the century, professor.”

“Fine! I will not wander around the woods alone, Potter. Are you happy now?”

“Not really, no. But that’ll do. Accio Severus Snape’s Ingredient Basket,” he casts firmly, and the Chizpurfles’ container raises from its perch at the roots of the oak tree, and sails towards them, crossing the pesky Ministry barrier as if it’s not even there. “Here you go, Your Highness.” Potter teases him, offering the basket to him with a small bow. Severus doesn’t know if he should feel insulted or charmed, so he doesn't respond either way. Potter straightens with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose tightly.

“You’re going to be the death of me. You know that much at least, don’t you?” He mumbles unhappily. Severus shrinks away from him, basket clutched tightly to his suddenly heaving chest.

“That would greatly disappointment me, Potter,” He manages to retort, “I’ve gone to considerable lengths to keep you alive so far.”

“And I you, Snape.” Potter replies, “You’d do well to remember that.” Severus can’t stand the disappointed look on the boy’s green eyes, so he turns around and heads towards his cottage. Potter doesn’t try to stop him. Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t reassure him that nothing has broken between them and, by the time Severus closes his front door behind himself, he doesn’t even know what’s going on between them anymore. Potter is protective of him, overly so, and Severus isn’t used to being on the receiving end of that sort of care. He has been on his own for far too long. He is an independent soul. He is also perfectly qualified to protect himself from harm. Severus finds the savior’s worrywarting regarding his safety both unwarranted and insulting, but he also finds it heart-meltingly charming. What he doesn’t know yet is if he finds it charming enough to put up with it for longer than five minutes.

  



	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

“Have you ever thought about settling down?” Potter asks idly about three weeks after their argument. Despite the heated words they exchanged, the boy has kept his promise of accompanying Severus on his ingredient-gathering excursions, as well as insisting they explore various other venues, which is how Severus has spent the last half hour in absentminded contemplation of the fine mess a Tripple Berry Tower can make in such a short time when one isn’t fond enough of the sort of concoctions Florean Fortescue’s successor is rapidly becoming famous for. Severus has never been a fan of ice-cream, and overly large amounts of the stuff tightly packed inside bright-colored cups tend to make him feel exhausted rather than hungry, despite Pansy’s insistence that his way of thinking is sacrilege. Potter’s enthusiastic demolition of his Butterscotch and Banana Barrel leads Severus to believe that the savior would agree with his former student, and the idea of how horrified both of them would be if Severus were to disclose that they share at least one opinion, makes him smile to himself.

“Settling down, huh? Those are heavy thoughts indeed to be contemplating in so lighthearted a setting, Mr. Potter.”

“Are they now? I’d have thought this is the perfect place for that sort of thing.” The Auror says, looking pointedly around in a gesture that focuses Severus’s attention on the various families that surround them. Potter is doing a fantastic job of ignoring the thickening row of so-called-journalists that is currently staring at them intrusively from the other side of the road. Severus envies the boy’s composure something fierce for he can’t fake that much poise to save his life. At least not when it comes to the press, who seems to have become increasingly enamored with both Severus himself and his friendship with the savior.

“Settling down requires a couple of things that I’ve, so far, failed to acquire,” Severus responds, swirling his spoon uneasily through the melting mess in his cup.

“You mean a lover, or a desire to put down roots?”

“Both? I’m not— I didn’t expect to survive the war. I spent most of my youth thinking I was living on borrowed time. Looking for commitment seemed selfish in those circumstances.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m too old. And infamous.”

Potter laughs. “That was a few months ago, professor. These days, you’re the man of the hour. Have the marriage proposals and creepy lewd propositions begun to take over your mail?”

Severus shudders at the very idea. “I don’t know. I had Draco cast one of those content-reading charms on my owl address, anything sent my way that doesn’t constitute ‘serious business’ vanishes as soon as the owl that carries it crosses my wards.”

“Handy, that. I may have to ask him to cast one on Grimmauld Place.”

Severus frowns. “Hasn’t Bill Weasley offered to do so for you yet? It’s a pretty standard curse-breaking trick. Places like Gringotts and the Ministry of Magic have those sort of charms embedded into the buildings themselves. I hear the Pyramids are riddled with them. And old manors like the ones belonging to the Malfoys. Or the Goyles. I’m surprised the Blacks didn’t go for that sort of thing.”

“Maybe Sirius took them down. Or Dumbledore. I doubt the kind of correspondence the Order members likely sent to one another during the war would have made it past any content-reading charm the Blacks imbued in the magic of their family home.”

“That sounds like something either of those two would have done.” Severus agrees quietly, praying for the boy to have grown tactful enough to realize that it’s too soon for them to delve into the ins and outs of Severus’s complicated relationship with either man.

“Maybe you should tell Malfoy to relax the specifications of his charm a bit. Merlin knows I’ve received a few seriously interesting offers over the years. Plenty of artistic pictures too.”

Severus fidgets with discomfort. “I’m not looking for either ‘interesting’ or ‘artistic.’ Thank you very much.”

Potter studies him curiously even as he plonks his spoon inside his now empty bowl with a satisfied air. “What are you looking for then?”

“Nothing. I’m— what are _you_ looking for, Potter?” Severus turns the brat’s question back to him in desperation. “Aren’t most of your friends already settled?”

“Not _all_ of them.” Potter shrugs, looking around at the giggling children and generally exhausted parents that currently surround them. “I’m looking for something true, I think. Something that’ll still shine even when it’s old.”

An unexpectedly heavy, fragile and fluttery feeling settles in the pit of Severus’s stomach upon hearing that description. He can’t think of a worthier treasure to seek. “I sincerely hope you find it,” he says, wondering if the boy already has. If his motherly, peace-loving maniac has begun the process of fulfilling his every dream of finding love and family. Severus aches with want. He longs for those things too. He’d found and lost them once, long ago. He never managed to find a second set and, by now, he’s dishearteningly convinced that he never will. He’ll make do with his loyal friends and the satisfaction of watching all the children who aren’t his, but have managed to steal his heart, grow up and find their own versions of happily ever after instead.

“Oh, I found it alright.” Potter confides, and Severus frowns because the Gryffindor doesn’t look half as ecstatic about it as Severus assumed he’d be.

“What’s the problem? Shouldn’t you be halfway through your ride towards the sunset already?”

“I wish it was that easy. Sometimes you find what you need, and you can’t have it, professor.” Potter says, smiling at him wistfully. “Or you think you can’t, and are desperate to find out whether you’re right or wrong, but you have no idea how to go about doing that.”

Severus gapes, colorful bowl full of slowly melting ice-cream forgotten altogether. “You’re in love with a chit who doesn’t love you back?”

Potter laughs. “Don’t look so shocked. Unrequited love can happen to the best of us. And it’s not a chit, by the way.”

“Semantics,” Severus dismisses Potter’s protest with a flustered wave of his hand. “What sort of idiot would rebuff you?”

“Someone with no taste for Gryffindors?”

“You’re in love with a _Slytherin_?” Severus squeaks, so shocked by the notion that he forgets his manners altogether and stares at Potter as if the brat has grown ten bright blue, furuncle-ridden heads in the last second.

Potter grins with delight, thoroughly amused by Severus’s surprise. “What can I say? You’re a pretty interesting bunch when you’re not busy allowing yourselves to be duped by evil megalomaniacs.”

“You are doomed, Potter,” Severus says, and means it. The Savior snorts inelegantly and shrugs his broad shoulders with enviable aplomb for someone so utterly fucked.

“And you’ve got the soul of a pessimist.”

“No. I don’t. I’m a realist through and through.”

Potter hums and runs a thoughtful fingertip around the rim of his empty cup. “Are the lines between our houses so clearly drawn then?”

Severus sits back in his chair and looks out towards the street, feeling deeply uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to be the harbinger of heartbreak, but he doesn’t want to give Potter false hope either. “Honestly? A few months ago I’d have answered that question with an unequivocal yes.”

“And now?” Potter asks, sounding slightly breathless. There’s an unnatural stillness to his ungraceful slouch that reminds Severus of a watchful predator. Something large and hungry and deadly, waiting for the right time to pounce.

“Now here I am, sitting openly in this establishment without fear that at any moment the owner will throw me out. Or that the people around me will start hexing me just because they can. I’m free to walk the streets, free to join my fellow wizards in a cafe without facing persecution. It’s a heady feeling, Potter. And it’s all because of you.”

“So you’re saying I can expect gratitude.”

“No. I’m saying that you’ve _earned_ gratitude. Draco and I plan to take Narcissa to that bakery of yours tomorrow, and if that trip goes well, we’ll start adding other former Slytherins into the mix. Our lives are different now, better than they’ve ever been since the war ended, and none of that would have been possible without you. That’ll buy you a lot of goodwill with my crowd.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for,” Potter grumbles, pouting like a child who has been told the cookies are out of bounds.

“But it’s a start, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“Who is it? Maybe I can intercede. I might be able to come up with a good word or two about your character.”

The Savior laughs sunnily. “A good word or two? That’s high praise coming from you, professor. Let’s hear them, shall we? What qualities of mine do you think would bag me a Slytherin?”

“That depends on the Slytherin in question, Mr. Potter. Millicent would never have you. She likes her men to be wild and utterly silly. She may go for Finnegan in a pinch, but never you. Daphne, on the other hand, might. You’re kind and thoughtful. You could very easily charm her.”

“Kindness and thoughtfulness— I never imagined any of you would go for those,” Potter says pensively. _‘Here we go’_ Severus thinks, and crosses his spindly arms across his chest defensively in preparation to withstand the nasty blow to the general character of Slytherins he can see coming his way.

“Why not?” He barks unhappily, “Having cunning and ambition doesn’t mean we’re as hard as flint, Potter. Some of us crave security and affection, just like everybody else.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to offend you,” Potter says softly, eyeing Severus’s closed off body language with regret, “I was thinking along the lines that you’d go for smarts, that’s all.”

“Oh!” Severus says and feels himself blush with embarrassment. He is so used to being derided as a ‘heartless snake’ that he has become hypersensitive to these type of conversations. “I overreacted. Apologies.”

“That’s OK. I get pretty tired of being judged as some sort of kamikaze nutter just because I sorted Gryffindor. I can be cautious about stuff. I can be thoughtful. And I can be as loyal as they come too. House stereotyping is the pits, and all of us are guilty of doing it at one point or another.”

“For what it’s worth, I hope you get your Slytherin chit, Potter. And I wish you both great happiness.” Severus says honestly, “The world would be a much better place if more people shared your thoughts.”

“It’s not a chit, Snape.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean. Inter-house relationships used to be common. Nowadays you’ll see very few of them, and they usually involve some sort of Gryffindor-Ravenclaw combination. Hufflepuffs stick together, and Slytherins— well, Slytherins are terribly proud. And picky. We won’t step forward if we fear rejection. And we take so long wondering if we can learn to live with a particular person’s flaws, that our prospective partner has lost interest entirely by the time we’re finally ready to step into the fray.”

“So you’re saying the trick to bagging a Slytherin is patience. I can dig some of that up. I think.”

Severus laughs, even though Potter’s joke isn’t particularly funny. He is grateful for the thoughtful attempt at seeking levity even as he feels inexplicably compelled to spell out his thoughts on the matter. “You’ve got to be what she needs, boy.” He explains, tapping his index finger against the surface of the table to emphasize his point. “You’ve got to be what she wants, or you’re out of luck with a Slytherin. With anyone, really.”

Potter looks down towards Severus’s hand, at rest between them now that he’s made his point. The savior’s fingertips twitch, lift, then hesitate. Potter looks into his face, seeking permission, maybe. Severus doesn’t dare to move a muscle. “I think I could be,” Potter says softly, looking directly into his eyes as he finally brings his hand down and wraps dry and slightly shaking fingers around Severus’s own. Severus feels the touch down to his bones. He stares at their joined hands, feeling the composure-shattering rasp that’s suddenly coloring the boy’s voice settle across his skin like the caress of a lover. “I hope I am. I want to be.”

Severus forces his gaze back to Potter’s face and finds himself drowning in the overwhelming intensity of those famous green eyes. His heart misses a beat, then startles like the cowardly thing it is, and he panics. Severus doesn’t fully grasp why his stupid heart has decided to do something so horrible to him, but he is suddenly blindsided by the knowledge that he has, somehow, managed to cross a line he never intended to go near.

Severus has known for weeks now that he is worryingly drawn to the boy’s sweet and slightly naive nature, drawn to Potter’s unfailing kindness, but the emotion currently running roughshod through his veins isn’t trifling awareness anymore. Whatever flimsy form of admiration he’s been harboring for the Gryffindor so far has now become something else entirely, turned into feelings Severus can’t allow himself to embrace. An attraction he can’t allow _Potter_ to ever discover that he feels because Potter is his friend. Potter is also as good as taken. He is already in love with someone else. Severus pulls his hand out of the Gryffindor’s clasp in a flustered motion, pushes his chair back, and comes to a standing position beside the table. Potter stiffens at once from head to toes but remains seated. When the boy finally raises his head to look up at Severus, his features are ash-white. Severus feels slightly foolish for hoovering over him like that, but he can’t ignore the panicked voice screaming at the back of his mind, urging him to retreat. “I must leave,” he says baldly, “I left a potion on the burner, and it’s time to check on it.”

“Of course, professor,” Potter says, his tone now both utterly bland and scrupulously polite. It’s clear that the Auror isn’t buying Severus’s flimsy excuse, but has no plans to challenge it. Potter raises from his chair, drops a couple of galleons on the table, and motions for Severus to precede him out of the small patio area. Severus follows the boy’s cues, grappling with the dismay brought on by his sudden realization regarding the changing nature of his feelings toward the savior. He is embarrassed by the jumpy behavior he displayed. Potter must think him crazy. And the paparazzi, craning their necks to keep tabs on them from the other side of the street, must be having a field day. Severus shudders to imagine what tomorrow’s headlines will bring. He has humiliated both himself and the boy. He is behaving like an idiot, and he knows it, but there is nothing he can do about any of it right now. He’ll have to apologize, and he sincerely hopes that Potter doesn’t make him work for his forgiveness like Albus sometimes did. That’d be utterly mortifying.

“Do you want me to escort you to the nearest apparition point, or do you plan to catch the Floo?” Potter asks as they step onto Diagon Alley proper, breaking him out of his rapidly spiraling thoughts.

Severus looks at the boy who is now staring at him warily and feels compelled to get the apologizing part done already. He’d rather not spend the rest of his day agonizing ad nauseam over it. “Potter, I— You must think me thoroughly uncouth for cutting our encounter short so abruptly. I feel I owe you an apology, and-

“ _Don’t_. Please.” Potter interrupts him, raising a hand as if he is planning to wrap it around Severus’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, but halting the motion halfway through. “I should be the one to apologize. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I’m sorry. I forgot you’re not Ron. Or Hermione. I’m a touchy-feely bloke, and you are not. That’s not your fault, professor. It’s nobody’s fault really. That’s just us, our personalities, clashing for the first time.”

Severus sighs, relieved that he hasn’t managed to botch their friendship yet. “I— Thank you, Potter. You’re more understanding than I gave you credit for.”

“That’s me. Kind and thoughtful, remember?” Potter grins, but his smile isn’t as bright as usual, and Severus hates it on sight. He fidgets from left to right. Wondering what he can possibly say to make this better, but the Auror beats him to it.

“Would you like me to accompany you and Draco on your outing with Narcissa tomorrow? I can spare the time if you schedule it for after five.”

“No, I— Thank you, but that’s not necessary, Potter. We can’t use you as our crutch forever. The outing will either succeed on its own or it won’t, and if it doesn’t, well, we need to find out sooner rather than later if the change we’re seeing towards us can stand on its own.”

Potter looks down at his shiny boots, shoulders drooping ever so slightly. “Don’t you think it’s a bit too soon? I don’t want any of you getting hurt. It’s only been a few months. Things that may not click in place for the three of you tomorrow could do so in the near future.”

Severus shrugs, he knows he is being stubborn about this, but he can’t think of what else to do. His friendship with Potter shouldn’t be based solely around Severus’s desire to rehabilitate the reputation of his former Hogwarts’ house. He needs to at least attempt to keep both things separate. “If it doesn’t work out now it won’t work at all, Potter.”

Potter takes a shuddering breath. “All right.”

“I’ll go home via Floo if you don’t mind,” Severus informs him, suddenly desperate to part ways with his companion. He is not precisely comfortable with his growing suspicion that every decision he’s made this evening has brought disappointment to the savior.

“I see. Goodbye, then, professor.”

“Goodbye, Potter,” Severus responds quietly and watches the Gryffindor turn around and head down the street with a despondent air about him. Somehow the boy lost that charming bounciness of his in the last ten minutes of their outing, and Severus can’t shake the awful feeling that it’s all because of him. He doesn’t like that thought at all. He doesn’t like it in the slightest.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22.**

Thankfully, the outing with Narcissa is a success and, in the exultant high that follows it, Severus convinces himself that he’ll be able to kill his nascent attraction to the boy stone dead the moment he brings Potter and his mysterious Slytherin chit together. Severus knows himself well enough to understand that even though he may be willing to indulge in the dreamy-eyed, diffuse sense of hope that comes with having a crush on an unattached, gorgeous, wizard, he is not the sort of man who’d allow himself to entertain such thoughts about someone else’s lover.

He spends a good two days pondering the problem. Combs painstakingly through his memory in an effort to make a mental list of every Slytherin female the savior could have possibly come into contact with while he was a student at Hogwarts that fits the bill of a motherly, peace-loving maniac even remotely. At the end of it all, Severus’s list of candidates is pitifully short. Five names. A miserably small handful of possibilities, none of which seem particularly plausible to him.

He shares both his list and the knowledge that Potter’s girl is a Slytherin with both Pansy and Daphne, who are very shocked indeed upon hearing the news, and understandably eager to assist in Severus’s quest to ensure Potter’s romantic bliss. With their help, Severus strikes one name off his list because the lady in question is the retiring sort and Potter, to the best of their knowledge, hasn’t ever been to Cornwall, so the chances that she is the one who holds his heart are negligible.

The girls manage to add six more names to the list; people who graduated a handful of years ahead of Potter, and found employment in the Ministry before the end of the war. The savior could have easily come into contact with all of them after graduation. One of the ladies in question, the most likely of the lot in Severus’s opinion, works as an expert in magical tracking for the Auror department.

Severus decides to mention her to Potter in casual conversation and is thoroughly stumped by the boy’s distinct lack of interest in the topic. Potter knows her. She is ‘a decent enough tracker’ who enjoys wearing thoroughly intimidating hair-bows, apparently. Mentioning the other girls in his list has about the same effect, and draws equally lackluster enthusiasm.

When consulted, Blaise stares at Severus’s list with raised eyebrows and tells him not to bother. Apparently, Weasley mentioned recently that there’s finally some hope with regards to Potter’s love life, so Blaise doesn’t see the point of getting involved in it. Severus can’t possibly confess that he is trying to expedite the success of Potter’s romantic endeavors for his own peace of mind; thus, he leaves his former student’s club empty-handed. Draco offers to talk to Potter, or Granger since she is more likely to see the sense of letting them intercede on behalf of the savior with the girl in question, but Severus would rather not take things that far just yet. He’s already offered his help directly to the Gryffindor, after all.

Minerva chokes on her drink when Severus asks her point-blank to come up with a list of the most motherly Slytherin girls she can think of. She coughs for five minutes straight, then plonks her tumbler rather forcefully on the low table between them and sputters accusingly, “I thought you were gay!”

Severus blinks, “Er-

“Don’t you ‘er-’ at me, Severus Tobias Snape. You told me you were -and I quote- _‘definitely and incurably gay’_ when I tried to hook you up with Amaryllis, my second cousin twice removed. Don’t you dare tell me now that was a bluff aimed at wriggling out of meeting her because she ended up marrying an absolute boor who moved the family to Cape Verde, and I haven’t seen her in ten years. She's the most motherly woman in existence. More motherly than Molly Weasley even and, if you'd married her, she’d still be here, in England, where I could visit her every time I wanted.”

“I am gay, Min-min. Don’t you remember how I fell madly in love with Regulus Black in my sixth year? That’s the reason why his idiot brother tried to murder me via werewolf. Sirius Black didn’t think I was good enough to join the family. Not that it mattered, Regulus disappeared from the face of the Earth a few years later. I never knew what happened to him until Potter revealed the contents of the note hidden inside Slytherin’s locket.”

“I remember now. Regulus Black banished the summer Greyback’s pack was trying to expand their territory southward. The Order assumed he’d been one of the wolves’ victims and declared him dead within three months of his disappearance. You were inconsolable.”

“I was. I loved him very much. I wanted to marry him.”

“Oh, Severus-

“It’s all right. Those dreams are lost now. Regulus has been dead for a very long time.”

“I see. Then why are you searching for a motherly Slytherin girl if you have no plans to settle down?”

“I’ve settled down already, thank you very much.”

“You’re determined to remain single, you mean.”

“Determined? No. But I’m likely to remain single anyway. It’d take a courageous man indeed to even flirt with the likes of me, there aren’t many of those around.”

“If it’s bravery you seek, I’ve had a hand in shaping several fine Gryffindors. Some of them even claim to be as definitely and incurably gay as you, Severus, and for you, my dear, I’d be delighted to try my hand at matchmaking.“

Severus snorts, “We’ll see. For now, though, I’m the one playing matchmaker, Min-min, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not a particularly gifted one.”

“Oh! Who are we trying to matchmake? Is it Draco? I thought he was into boys. And didn’t you mention that Narcissa wants him to concentrate on establishing his career first?”

“It’s not Draco. It’s Potter.” Severus explains quietly. “It has come to my attention that the boy is smitten with a former Slytherin. A motherly one, to be precise. He mentioned the other day that he’s not confident of his chances to charm the girl in question, so I thought I may intercede on his behalf.”

Minerva stares at him for so long that Severus wonders if she’s frozen in place. “Are you absolutely certain that _Harry_ _Potter_ told you he is in love with a Slytherin girl?”

Severus frowns, “Why? You think him too precious for the likes of us? I never realized you were such a house snob, Minerva.”

”Hush! That’s not what I meant at all. It’s just that- Oh, dear. I fear it isn’t my place to tackle this issue with you, but you’re so ridiculously blind. Poor Harry!”

Severus frowns. “What on Earth are you on about?”

To his shock, Minerva doesn’t answer him directly but posses a guiding question instead. “Don’t you think that if Harry wanted a motherly girl, he’d have married Ginevra Weasley? They were together for almost two years.”

“The Weasley chit isn’t motherly at all.” Severus scoffs.

“True. But her mother makes up for that in spades, and Harry is already deeply attached to the family. He’d have become an official part of it if he’d married her. Why choose a different girl when he had that one hanging from his every word? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe she isn’t what he is looking for.”

“Exactly!” Minerva beams, looking at him expectantly, and Severus stares right back, wondering if she’s gone crazy. Silence grows between them. After about a minute, the Headmistress’s smile begins to waver, and she makes a vague motion with her hand. It’s the universal gesture all teachers use to encourage a particularly slow student to expand on his line of thought, and Severus flushes a bright red upon finding himself on the receiving end of it.

“I’m afraid your explanation may not have been as clear as you believe it to be, Minerva,” Severus says tightly.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! You’re a bonafide genius in 3 magical fields, Severus. How can you possibly be so obtuse when it comes to human emotion? Listen carefully, please: Harry didn’t marry Ginevra Weasley because s _he_ isn’t what he is looking for. It doesn’t get clearer than that, dear.”

“I’ve got that part. I said that myself, Min-min,” Severus points out defensively, “Do you expect me to arrive at the conclusion that Potter wants Molly Weasley instead?”

Minerva splutters indignantly and sits ram-rod straight at the very edge of her chair. “That’s not as funny as you think, young man. It’s also quite disturbing. Molly Weasley is as good as Harry’s mother.”

“Then what the hell are you trying to imply? Be clear, old hag.”

“Harry Potter is not in love with a Weasley.”

Severus glares at her. “I know that already. None of them are Slytherin, are they?”

Minerva twitches with frustration. Then leans forward and takes hold of her discarded glass. Severus watches her drain half it's contents in one go, and his left eyebrow rises towards his hairline. She catches his judgmental expression and huffs like a ruffled owl. “Fine! Let me be absolutely clear then: Harry is gay, Severus. Definitely. Extremely. Incurably so. There’s no way he is in love with a girl.”

Severus simply sits there, staring at her like she’s lost her bloody mind, “You must be mistaken,” he says faintly and watches her brown eyes soften even as she shakes her head from left to right.

“I am not.”

“But— he is in love with a motherly, peace-loving maniac.”

“So?”

“How can he possibly be in love with a motherly maniac if he doesn’t like girls?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I have no idea what that motherly maniac comment even means.”

Severus’s fingertips twitch around his glass of Firewhiskey. He looks down and stares blindly into its rich, golden contents. He feels strangely lightheaded, unpleasantly disconnected from reality, and at the same time bizarrely hipper-aware of everything. “There are rumors. About how a couple of years ago, Potter became smitten with— an individual who exhibits those characteristics.”

“Rumors.” Minerva zeroes in on that word with undisguised contempt. Disapproval drips as freely from her tone as water from a faulty faucet. Severus squirms in his seat, feeling young and utterly ridiculous.

“Rumors are a Slytherin’s best friends, Minerva. You know this.”

“I know that basing your decisions on information gathered via rumor isn’t a particularly wise practice. It’s also beneath you, Severus.”

Severus flinches. “What else am I to do? We’ve been cut off from our usual sources, and we must remain informed of what’s going on around us. It hasn’t been safe for Slytherins to embrace cluelessness in any shape or form for a while now. We need time and forewarning of the changes coming our way if we want to survive them.”

Minerva sighs. Plonks her glass back on the table, and rubs her eyes with the very tips of her age-spotted fingers. “The only changes coming your way are those brought on by your recent realization that Harry can, and is willing to, help you. I’m not going to pretend things haven’t been hard for your snakes these past few years, Severus, but Harry has been fluttering around you since he graduated. You could have been where you are now ages ago if you’d paid him more attention.”

Severus frowns at her. “No. Potter wouldn’t have helped me back then. It was through his job in the neighborhood that he learned to respect me.”

“And yet he saved your life after the final battle. He testified on your behalf.”

“That is true, but-

“No.” Minerva cuts him off so firmly that Severus instinctively recoils.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” He barks, flustered, and she laughs unhappily in his face.

“Merlin! I merely mean no, Severus. I mean it’s time for you to stop trying so hard to bury your head in the sand and _think_! You earned Harry’s respect on the day of the final battle. That’s why he went back to the Shrieking Shack for you. That’s why he fought so hard for your freedom. What his job in Sunlit Lane taught him with regards to you is something completely different. He learned everything about you then, and I don’t mean the teacher he already knew. I mean the real you, Severus. The warm, loving, and slightly lonely gentleman who is good enough with children to have a bouncy five-year-old hanging from his every word.”

Severus gapes. “Are you implying that _I_ am Potter’s motherly sort?”

“Of course you are, you, blithering idiot!”

“I can’t be. I’m not a peace-loving maniac.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No!”

“You left Hogwarts because you were tired of teaching ‘squabbling’ children. You haven’t so much as participated in a dueling contest since the end of the war, even though you used to take delight in doing so. You told me to my face that you’re tired of war-mongering, that you don’t want to lose the friends you’ve got left to another senseless conflict. You bought yourself a _cottage_ in the most idyllic neighborhood in Wizarding Britain, Severus, and you hardly ever leave the safety of it. I’d say you’re a peace-loving maniac indeed.”

“This is insane.”

“It isn’t. I’ve been telling you for months. You’ve tempted Harry Potter into falling for you with all that artless charm you don’t even know you possess.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all day.”

“No, it isn’t. What’s ridiculous is to hold onto the illusion that Harry is in love with some random Slytherin girl when the boy is a raging homosexual and has never even looked, let alone tried to talk to or bothered to find a way to hover for years around the fringes of the daily life of any Slytherin who isn’t _you_ , Severus.”

Severus shivers from head to toes under the unrelenting onslaught of Minerva’s conviction. He can’t believe she is right, but his arguments seem risible in comparison to hers. Despite Severus’s numerous attempts to bring them into casual conversation, Potter hasn’t shown a smidgen of interest in any of the girls on his list. Severus thinks back to that day at the ice-cream parlor, and his increasingly flustered mind flashes back to the way Potter held his hand. The way the boy had looked directly into his eyes and told him in that intense, raspy tone that he wanted to be what his mysterious beloved needed— Oh, Merlin! Potter had objected every single time Severus labeled his crush as ‘a chit,’ and he’d been idiotic enough to dismiss the savior’s repeated protests. Furthermore, the boy had been blatantly fishing for Severus’s thoughts on the matter of romantic entanglements that afternoon. Was it possible that the Gryffindor had been flirting with him too? Had Potter gone as far as to attempt to confess his feelings, and had Severus been too focused on his own agenda, too blind, to see it?

“How can this be? He’s— I’m twenty years his senior, Minerva.”

“And Elphinstone Urquart was thirty five-years mine, and that didn’t stop him from proposing. Or me from eventually marrying him. We were happy, Elph and I. Wizards and witches live so long that a twenty, thirty, or even a forty-year age-gap doesn’t matter much eventually. Harry will be one hundred when you’re a hundred and twenty, so what? It’s a trivial thing indeed when you think properly about it, Severus.”

Severus stares at her, wide-eyed. He is certain the confusion-fueled distress he is currently experiencing shows on his face. His perception of Harry Potter has changed forever and, with it, the landscape of every possible future Severus has dared to dream about regarding their friendship. If Minerva is right, friendship is the least Potter will offer him, and Severus is too overwhelmed right now to try figuring out whether he is excited by that prospect or terrified out of his wits. “Potter is kind, Min-min,” he whispers rawly, and she has known him long enough to understand precisely what that means.

“Some weaknesses are worth having, Severus,” she says softly. He shakes his head from left to right, attempting to reject the notion, even though he knows himself to be dismally ambivalent of his position in the matter. He is a Slytherin. He is aware he has weaknesses, just like everybody else, but he can’t help seeing them as awful disadvantages, unwelcome chinks in his armor that his rivals exploit gleefully.

“This could be more than weakness, Minerva. It could be disastrous. It could be the end of me. I’m obsessive, jealous, needy. I’m— romantically fragile. There’s a reason why I never pursued a relationship after Regulus disappeared.”

“That was a long time ago, and Harry isn’t Regulus, Severus. He is not facing any danger and, even if he was, he is the most powerful mage of his generation. There is a pretty good chance that he’ll still be by your side when you take your last breath. Don’t you want that for yourself, dear? I certainly want it for you.”

“Of course I want it, but—“ Severus doesn’t know the right words to further explain what he is certain Minerva understands perfectly anyway, so he doesn’t. Longing for companionship, for belonging, is a weakness too. One that Severus has always been cursed with. Potter could be the end of that if it’s true that the savior is interested in him, but— should Severus allow himself to fall for the boy, then the Gryffindor would become his Achilles's heel, the one thing he wouldn’t survive losing. Severus’s every instinct tells him to run away, to seek safety, but there are only two paths ahead of him, and they both look equally perilous. His foolish heart’s desires have placed him once more between the devil and the deep blue sea.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23.**

In the aftermath of the ‘Harry Potter is a raging homosexual’ revelation, Severus is understandably conflicted about the nature of his friendship with the boy. He wakes up that Saturday to a world that only remains the same outwardly. There are new options open to him now, if Minerva’s assertions are correct, but Severus isn’t certain that he wishes to pursue them.

There is a chance that Potter is madly in love with him. The very thought is utterly bizarre, and yet— Oh, Merlin! To have love again. The prospect tempts him. Frightens him. Fills him with the sort of giddy joy he hasn’t experienced since he was a teenager.

Severus makes himself a cup of tea and sips it distractedly, seeking insight maybe. Or acceptance. He is attempting to find the courage to figure out how he feels about the idea of Potter being madly in love with him. The boy is many things indeed, but he isn’t the sort to claim such depth of affection unfounded. If Potter says he is in love, then he is. And he is the sort to adore, to worship. To defend and to shelter. To remain forever loyal. If Potter is in love with him, then Severus can’t afford to show any ambivalence with regards to the depth -or the honesty- of his own feelings. Toying with the boy’s emotions would be unconscionable, and it could potentially destroy the best in Potter: his naivety. His kindness. His sincerity of heart.

Severus may be attracted to the idiot, but he doesn’t think he loves him. He doesn’t know Potter nearly well enough for that, and he can’t predict if having such knowledge would ever translate into genuine reciprocation of the brat’s feelings. It’s a catch twenty-two, isn’t it? Severus doesn’t want to hurt the savior by leading him on. But he won’t be able to explore the possibility of growing more deeply attached to the Gryffindor unless he does.

Love… Severus hasn’t had a chance to seriously consider the possibility of having such a thing in his life since Regulus disappeared, all those years ago now. Regulus’s absence had crippled him severely at the time, leading him to decide that loneliness, while not ideal, at least protects him from the utter devastation of emotional abandonment. Despite all the pain their unexpected separation caused him, Severus can’t help but remember how gloriously, incandescently happy the years they’d spent together had been.

Potter isn’t Regulus. In that, at least, Minerva is correct. The chances of the boy abandoning him due to an unfortunate magical mishap are negligible. And if it turns out that Severus is indeed the brat’s motherly maniac, then he can’t imagine any circumstances that would drive Potter to abandon him willingly. Harry Potter, like himself, endured a loveless childhood; therefore finding -and keeping- love is one of the boy’s most driving ambitions.

Can Severus feel again what he once felt for the youngest Black, or was that kind of blissful contentment a Regulus-only-fueled emotion? Can love be equally sincere, equally fulfilling, equally profound if you feel it twice in one lifetime? Severus doesn’t know. He can’t even tell if he is willing to find out at this point. He knows only that he is curious. That he is hopeful. That he -maybe- wants to see what Potter would do if Severus manages to stop freaking out every time the Auror tries to make a move. What would happen if he stands still and finds enough courage to allow the brat to hold his hand and whisper nebulous promises in that raw tone that makes Severus’s heart pound so strongly he feels dizzy?

There is a part of Severus that’s worried that his friendship with the Gryffindor is now damaged forever. He suspects something now that just yesterday morning had seemed utterly risible. It is possible that Potter has designs on him. Does that mean the brat misstated the reasons behind his desire for a truce, for friendship? Is Potter using their current closeness to wriggle himself into Severus’s life, into his bed, with the intention of remaining there forever? Does Potter look at him not with nascent fondness, as Severus had previously hoped, but with unspoken lust? Does he touch himself at night, daydreaming about having Severus’s hands, his mouth, on him? Severus blushes at the boldness of his own thoughts, at the shocking physicality he has no trouble contemplating. He is no virgin, of course. Has resorted to as many one-night stands as have been necessary to help him keep his crippling loneliness at bay since Regulus’s death, but— after being lucky enough to get deflowered by a loving partner, Severus has been dismayed to discover that casual sex doesn’t hold a candle to loving intimacy. There is no laughter in it, no connection, and he doesn’t enjoy it as much. Severus wonders if Harry Potter is even capable of caressing anyone with a deeply devoted touch, with that fondly amused, tender joy that makes you giggle between kisses while your limbs tangle together among hopelessly disarrayed sheets, and is well and truly flustered by the arousing suspicion that Potter probably knows no other way of making love.

Severus wanders idly from room to room, picking up this or that project in an effort to distract himself, but nothing outside his own head holds his attention. He ponders leaving for a while. Severus could write to Emille and let him know that he’s changed his mind about accepting the potioneer’s sponsors invitation to go over to the continent and give them a presentation about the delivery spell he’s crafted for the man’s upcoming bone-cure, but he doesn’t find the idea either soothing or particularly alluring. Severus doesn’t feel _tempted_ to leave. Oh, no. He is perversely curious about how the situation with Potter will unfold now that he’s gained so shocking an insight into the boy’s potential motivation for seeking him out.

Severus paces back and forth and wonders how he’ll feel when he next claps eyes on the brat. Will he feel trapped? Scared? Hopeful? Will the nascent attraction he’s been trying to suppress take flight and become stronger, or will it wither and die now that his simplistic daydreams about having Potter are no longer so impossible? Severus has a chance, at least in theory, of laying claim to the heart of The Boy Who Lived. Does he want it? Would he risk his peace of mind, his barely recovered reputation, his emotional freedom, for it? Would he risk the fallout that would inevitably affect every member of his former Hogwarts’ house should an attempt at hooking up with Potter end in heartbreak? Potter is kind. Potter is attractive, protective, loyal. Potter can -and maybe is even willing to- give him so many of the things he’s always wanted, but never managed to keep. Things like partnership, companionship, belonging. Things like tender passion. Things like— family. Potter wants something that is true. Something that’ll still shine even when it’s old. Severus wants that too. He’s always wanted that. And although he understands that he may fail to get it even if he stays, he is utterly certain that he’ll never do so if he runs away now **.**[ **  
**](https://pekeleke.dreamwidth.org/156495.html#cutid1)


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24.**

Severus doesn’t see Potter for the next four days even though he is not actively avoiding the man. There has been some sort of emergency in the Auror department. Daphne says her father mentioned that a routine investigation of privately-owned cursed property has gone belly up. Longbottom was rushed to St. Mungo’s, along with Brilligand, a former Hufflepuff turned mediocre curse-breaker who happens to be the best ‘expert’ the DMLE has to offer since they no longer employ former Slytherins. Everyone else who bothers to study curse-breaking is glad to exchange the political back-stabbing typical of Ministry employment for the relative calmer working environment of Gringotts.

The papers haven’t gotten hold of the story yet, and Severus finds comfort in that, for it means that, regardless of what might be wrong with him, Longbottom is still alive. No force on Earth would have prevented The Prophet from announcing the untimely, though heroic, demise of Nagini’s slayer if such a thing had come to pass. Some pimple-faced whelp -Wiggins, former Ravenclaw, passable at misdirecting potions and terrible at Transfigurations- has taken over Potter’s beat. The boy is slightly judgmental, and so utterly wet behind the ears that he spent three hours yesterday trapped just outside old Esther’s front door, listening to her ever-ready stories about the antics of ‘dear old Willoughby’ who Wiggins was unfortunate enough to have to rescue -twice- from the depths of her conker tree.

Severus doesn’t necessarily hate the change, but he is not precisely indifferent to it. He’s grown used to seeing Potter at random intervals during the day. Used to hearing the savior’s voice, the savior’s laughter, even though until recently neither was directed at him. Severus has been shocked to discover that he misses the boy and isn’t sure if their newborn friendship gives him free rein to contact him or not, particularly at a time like now, when Potter is so obviously busy attending to the health of a much older, much closer friend.

Severus is kneeling in dusty splendor just outside his cottage, patiently coaching Nathaniel into drawing a Vanishing Rune on the cobblestones with a conjured chalk -an orange one, of course- when the ex-Gryffindor finally shows up in Sunlit Lane.

“You’re so good with him,” Potter says in lieu of a conventional greeting, and Severus wonders if that is the sort of statement that birthed the hopelessly inaccurate ‘Harry Potter is in love with a motherly sort’ rumor.

“Harry! Where have you been?” Nathaniel jumps from his crouched position and hops over to Potter before Severus has enough time to open his mouth. He comes to his feet too, waves his wand in a lazy arch to vanish the conjured chalk sticks scattered all over the road, and can’t help the smirk that settles across his lips as Nathaniel proceeds to dish out all the dirt he’s collected on Potter’s young -and painfully stuffy- replacement. “You can not leave ever again, Harry. Or you have to promise that you’ll send us an Auror that’s as cool as you when you go. Auror Wiggins is nice, but he doesn’t like Mr. Wimby. He called my boar ugly, can you believe it? And then he told grandma off for letting me stick it to the garden gate ‘cause it’s un-sigh-tly. He said Mr. Wimby makes the other houses look cheap. Master Snape had to call him a med-dle-some mo-ron in that growl-y voice of his to get him to shut up. He was upsetting grandma, you know? I don’t like it when grandma is upset. When I grow up I’m gonna have a frightening growl-y voice too. Master Snape promised to teach me how to do it when I’m older. It’s gonna be so cool! Do you have a growl-y voice, Harry?”

“Er- I don’t know? But I don’t think there is a single wizard in all of England whose growl-y voice is more impressive than Master Snape’s.”

Nathaniel nods enthusiastically, all bouncy agreement and dazzled growl-worship. “I know! It’s awesome, right? Mine is gonna be just like it.”

“Hmmm. What are the two of you up to? Am I looking at the latest in orange street art?”

Nathaniel laughs, bright and carefree, and grabs hold of Potter’s hand, dragging him closer. “It’s a Va-ni-shing Rune, silly. Master Snape is teaching me how to draw them. He put that flower pot over there in the middle of one and made it go back into his house. It was so cool!”

“Ah! I never learned runes at Hogwarts, but my friend Hermione thinks they’re fascinating.”

Nathaniel wrinkles his tiny nose, “What does Fascanating mean?”

“It’s fas-ci-na-ting, mate. Not fascanating. It means something is cool, you know? Special.”

“I see. Your friend sounds super-smart, Harry. How many different words for the same thing does she know?”

Potter smiles fondly and ruffles the child’s hair. “Loads and loads. I think she swallowed a dictionary when she was little.”

“Ewww! That must be worse than cabbage, and cabbage is the worst. I’m never going to swallow a dictionary. Not even if grandma says it’ll make me grow as tall as a Mountain Troll. Mountain Trolls are too big anyway. And they fart! It’s because they eat so much cabbage, Timmy Fickamore says so.”

“Timmy Ficamore has never seen a Mountain Troll in his life, Nathaniel. Reading fictional accounts about them doesn’t count as proper knowledge.” Severus intervenes before the conversation deteriorates into a lengthy dissertation of the headache-inducing plot of the latest storybook to take the Ficamore boy’s fancy.

“But proper books are boring! Grandma reads proper books. They never have adventures in them. They only talk about conflits.”

“Conflicts,” Severus corrects patiently, taking hold of the child’s hand in order to herd him securely up the lane. “Now come on. I bet your grandma is wondering what’s taking us so long. She did mention you’re scheduled for a haircut in an hour.”

“Haircuts are boring!” Nathaniel sulks at once. “I want to grow my hair long like yours, Master Snape. I want to have that pony-thingy. It’s cool. And I want glasses too! I’m gonna ask Santa to give me ugly socks for Christmas so grandma can take a picture of me that’s as awesome as yours. Then I’m gonna put them on my wall side by side.”

Severus startles and, coming to a flustered stop in the middle of the road, looks down at the child. “Am I to assume that you’ve asked your grandmother to save that ridiculous clipping from The Prophet’s article?”

“’Course I did. Everybody saved it. All my friends, and even Bryce.”

“I see,” Severus says, thanking Merlin that he doesn’t stammer, even though he can’t come up with anything else to add just now. He is bright red, he knows. Can clearly feel the spreading heat of the inconveniently-timed blush currently climbing up his neck and across his cheeks.

Potter smiles gently at him, “May I?” He asks, and when a flustered Severus gives him an uncertain nod of confused agreement to whatever the boy is asking him permission to do, Potter reaches out very carefully over Nathaniel’s head and takes hold of a random lock of Severus’s hair, letting the feathery tips brush back and forth across the pad of his thumb.

“I saved that clipping too, Snape,” The Savior tells him in that shiver-inducing raw tone that has the power to make Severus grow weak at the knees. “I have a copy of the original picture too. Headmistress McGonagall gave it to me. I hope you don’t mind.”

Severus’s throat goes as dry as parchment paper. His blush deepens, and his eyes widen with something that is neither fear nor hope. His very gut feels alive with fluttery exhilaration, and there’s a tingly sort of awareness taking hold of his every sense. He knows there’s no way that’s true, but he’d swear he can feel the softness of the skin of Potter’s thumb with the very tips of his hair, “O-of course I don’t mind. We’re friends. Remember?” He stammers. The clumsiness of his attempt at accepting the Savior’s possible/probable/shockingly blatant flirting embarrasses him so completely that Severus closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with the fingertips of his free hand. Merlin! He is out of practice.

“Snape?” Potter’s tone sharpens with concern, and when Severus opens his eyes once again, it is to the sight of the Auror’s hand curled into a loose fist as far away from his hair as humanly possible. “Did my touch offend you?”

“Of course not, you, idiot.” Severus snaps, more irritated with himself than with the boy. “It was just a lock of hair.” Shockingly, the brat’s smile returns as soon as he finds himself on the receiving end of Severus’s snark.

“So I can touch it again?” The Gryffindor asks cheekily and then proceeds to do exactly that before Severus can answer, “It’s so soft— I, too, think your long hair is beyond cool, professor. I love your pony-thingy. And your tiny reading glasses. But the thing I like the best about that picture is the expression on your face. You look so happy. I love watching you laugh.”

Severus colors anew. He may feel clumsy and tongue-tied but doesn’t have the slightest inclination to run away, screaming. Potter is definitely flirting with him. Furthermore, the savior has boldly dared to use the word ‘love’ in connection with him not once, but twice. Potter is making eyes at him and shuffling restlessly from left to right, obviously nervous. He is blushing as much as Severus himself, and his smile is shy and bright and full of hope. Severus takes a deep breath and lets himself sink into the moment. Lets himself drown in the depths of Potter’s gaze. Allows himself to be enchanted by his smile. Charmed by his words.

Potter swallows visibly and tries to shuffle forward, prompting Nathaniel to complain with a loud “Hey!” that breaks the moment, “Why are you trying to squish me, Harry?”

Severus blinks out of his daze and looks down at the child, wondering if he should consider himself lucky or not to be accompanied by so effective a chaperon. Potter mumbles a jittery-sounding, “Sorry, mate. There was er- a pothole. I didn’t want to trip on it.” Nathaniel accepts that frankly pathetic excuse with a trusting shrug and they all turn their attention to the business of resuming their slow trek up the road. Five steps later, Potter takes hold of Nathaniel’s free hand, and they walk thus the rest of the way. Both of them humming distractedly at the child that hops happily between them while babbling a mile a minute. Both of them feeling fluttery and shy in equal measure, throwing little looks at one another from the corner of their eyes. Severus wonders if they’re finally on the same page regarding this thing that’s growing between them, or if Minerva is wrong about the boy’s supposedly romantic feelings towards him and Severus is registering perfectly innocent friendly overtures as flirting because he wants to do so.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25.**

As Nathaniel disappears inside his grandmother’s house, waving goodbye until the last possible second, Severus frets about what, precisely, is he supposed to do now. He doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or with Potter. And he is finally alone with the man.

Potter wriggles nervously beside him. He is squirming like a worm caught on a fishing hook, and all that twitchy motion is driving Severus nuts. He is terrified of opening his mouth, knowing that he’ll snap something harsh and unforgivable if he does. Severus doesn’t deal well with stress. Nervousness has the unfortunate side-effect of sharpening his wit to vicious perfection. He’s never managed to-

“So… How have you been, Snape? Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Well, you’ve been busy lately. I heard about Longbottom. How is he?”

“He’s fi- You know what? That’s not exactly true, but what’s important is that Neville will be alright eventually. You know he’d been de-aged, right? Brilligand too. Their families are taking care of them now that St. Mungo’s says there’s nothing else they can do.”

“De-aged? That’s unusual.”

“There’s this ring of nutters who’ve decided to collect every cursed clock in Europe, hoping to find a way to reverse-engineer Time-Turners. It’s an international case because these plonkers are grabbing stuff that’s all over the place. The French, German, Spanish and Italian versions of the DMLE are all working on different aspects of the same case. Thing is, the only decent curse-breaker across the teams is the German bloke. He compiled a, frankly, bloody brilliant 12 page-long catalog of the most important cursed timepieces still scattered across Europe, alongside with an assessment on the families that own them, the curse and possible counter-course strategies to adopt with every one of those clocks, and how likely it was that our suspects would target them.”

Severus frowns. “Hold on. That sounds vaguely familiar. Isn’t Draco working on something along those lines? He’s been positively obsessed with cursed Baroque timepieces lately.”

“Of course he is,” Potter growls. “He’s the Germany-based curse breaker I’m talking about. Every team is using his catalog to keep track of the stuff still available in their respective country, except for us. Malfoy’s dossier has saved the lives of at least six different Aurors in the last two weeks, but do the idiots in my department listen to anything our European counterparts have to say? No! Nobody has bothered to even read Malfoy’s recommendations, let alone follow them.”

“What a bunch of morons.”

“What a bunch of morons indeed. I’m so fucking tired of this never-ending bullshit. Did you know that Malfoy has like eight awards in curse breaking? He fucking _wrote_ the latest textbook in Magical Defense that the blokes who teach at Durmstrang are currently using. Beauxbatons is thinking about adding it to their curriculum next year, but Hogwarts’ board of directors won’t even look at it because _‘Magical Defense is_ _n’_ _t_ _the same as_ _Defense Against The Dark Arts.’”_

“I’m confident that Draco’s healthy enough ego will survive the slight, Potter.” Severus tries to soothe him.

“That’s the thing. Draco Malfoy’s ego deserves to be stroked. I looked into his career after you told me he’s DMLE. Malfoy doesn’t give a single fuck about the members of Hogwarts’ board of directors behaving like a bunch of old-fashioned arseholes, or about why the petty section chiefs in the Auror department have insisted their teams dismiss his recommendations. Malfoy is doing his thing all the way in bloody Germany where they fucking _listen_ to him. He is busy saving lives with his brilliant work across _four_ European countries, collecting awards and whatnot, isn’t he? It’s not his bloody fault that Neville and Brilligant have been turned into babbling three-year-olds by the cursed clock they were guarding because they didn’t bother to do the smart thing and _follow_ his advice.”

“Potter-

“Robbards demanded they give me a mandatory briefing on the mess they’ve made of the Time-Turner case. That’s why you’ve been putting up with Wiggins these last few days. It’s over now. I’m coming back to Sunlit Lane tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong, then? I thought you were determined to stay in the Safe Neighborhood Program.”

“I’m not so sure anymore. Robbards is begging me to step in. He told me to forget about joining Dawlish’s group. He’ll let me handpick my own team. Anyone I want. And I won’t even have to do the legwork or anything. I’ll just take charge of my group of investigators and hand over their assignments, coordinate their resources, that sort of thing. Robbards gave me three months to give him an answer. The Time-Turner case may be over by then, but he promised me I’d be in charge of all the high profile investigations if I decide to accept his offer.”

“I see.”

“Do you? They’ve been trying to lure me into accepting that sort of position for ages. I’d have been the head of a team like that for over a year by now if I’d accepted their last offer. And they’d have given me _this_ case when it came up.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Yes, I do! They’d have given it to me, and I wouldn’t have let them ignore Malfoy’s report. Fuck! I’d have demanded they hire Malfoy in the first place if they wanted me to accept their stupid team leader position. What happened to Neville and Brilligand wouldn’t have happened at all if I’d been the head of their team, Snape.”

“It’s not your fault that you weren’t. You shouldn’t allow anyone to make you feel guilty about this. It has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

“I feel guilty about it anyway. Do you know how old Neville’s grandmother is? There’s nobody else, and she is currently stuck looking after a colicky three-year-old because we didn’t do our jobs properly.”

“Then accept Robbards’ offer and stop whining. Ranting in the middle of the lane like a lunatic isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Robbards is giving me a desk-bound job.”

“So?”

“I’ve told you this before. I don’t want to sit on my butt all day long. I _like_ the Safe Neighborhood Program, and Nathaniel will kill me if I quit and they give the beat to Wiggins.”

“Nathaniel will survive. Especially if you make sure they send Wiggins somewhere else.”

“But I won’t see you as often if I stay in London. And I’ll miss Nathaniel. And Mabel. And old Esther. And even bloody Willoughby. I’ll be stuck doing what they want. And Ron thinks they’ll push me up the ladder until they make me run for Minister of Magic.”

“Of course they will.”

“I’m not sure I want to be the next Minister of Magic, Snape,” Potter confesses, tone gone soft with anxiety, with a lack of confidence that makes Severus shake his head from left to right.

“If not you then _who_ , Potter? You’re the one who wants to change our world, make it better. You’re the one with the right vision. The owner of the voice the public listens to. You’re the one willing to pick up the right battles, boy, and you’re also the only one who has a chance to win them.”

“But they’ll never leave me alone if I become Minister. I’ll belong to them forever. To the public and the press. To the celebrity-loving phonies.”

“That’s not true. You belong to yourself, first and foremost. And you must make certain you become whoever you want to be. You can either decide to change the world or seek anonymity. But you can not do both.”

The boy stares at him for a very long time. He looks pale and flustered. Anxious beyond words, and Severus doesn’t know how to console him. How to help him find the strength that seems to have deserted him. “I don’t think my Slytherin would follow me into that sort of limelight,” Potter explains haltingly, and Severus feels the weight of about a million rocks settle in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re probably wrong about that. Slytherins don’t often dislike fame.”

“I think mine does. H-he’s— a bit shy.”

Severus’s breath hitches upon hearing Potter’s unmistakable use of the pronoun ‘he’ to describe his mystery crush. There is no room for error in that statement. Potter is definitely gay. “Are you certain of that?” He asks softly, even though he thinks the brat’s assessment on his general aversion to fame is spot on, assuming it’s him they’re talking about and not some other Slytherin.

“Pretty sure. Yeah.”

“Who is it?” Severus dares to ask even though he has absolutely no idea what he’ll do with that information. Severus is not in love. But that doesn’t mean he can’t get there if given enough time. He is wary of confronting the possibility of it so soon after learning that a meaningful relationship with Harry Potter may be within his grasp, but it’s becoming increasingly apparent that skirting around the issue for as long as it’ll take him to grow used to the idea isn’t going to work either.

“He’s the strongest man I know. Bold and beautiful and terrifyingly brave.” Potter says obliquely, and Severus doesn’t know if he is more relieved or exasperated at the Gryffindor's not so subtle refusal to answer his bloody question.

“If he is so brave, he’ll deal with both the perks and the headaches associated with your potential appointment as the next Minister Of Magic. There’s no Slytherin out there who doesn’t want you on the job, Potter.”

“Can we talk about something else, please?” Potter deflects with a sigh, “I don’t want us to argue about this. It’s bad enough that I have to deal with it at work. I came here to chill, you know?”

“I don’t think you’re succeeding.” Severus deadpans, unable to come up with anything better.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Potter laughs, shadowing him as he ambles back towards his cottage. “I’ve been dying to see you, Snape. Would you think me a complete nutter if I told you that I find your presence soothing?”

“Probably. I’m not precisely The Buddha, Potter.”

“Bah! That bloke was bald and fat and had terrible skin color. You, on the other hand, are famously photogenic. I’d bet you’d look better than The Buddha showing off your pecs on giant statue form.”

Severus snorts. “Nobody looks good on giant statue form, you idiot.”

“That’s not true. Have you never heard of Michelangelo? That bloke carved himself the cutest dreamboat ever carved.” Severus stumbles on thin air upon hearing that and Potter, the utter bastard, bursts out laughing.

“I don’t know what I find more shocking, that The Savior Of The Wizarding World has the hots for a giant piece of marble or that he’s even heard of Michelangelo.”

“Ha. Ha. I’m not completely uncultured, Snape. And I went to Italy on vacation a couple of years ago. It’s a gorgeous place full of awesome people and has the sort of food that makes you fat just by catching a whiff of it. Have you ever been there?”

“No. I never had enough money to travel before I became a professor, and afterward— Let’s say that traveling wasn’t high on my agenda during my Hogwarts’ tenure.”

“What about now?”

“Now I’m too lazy to do any traveling that doesn’t involve attending potion conferences. I’ve been to France and Germany. Portugal once or twice. And Switzerland. But I haven’t done any of the touristy things. I tend to go from the International Portkey Station to whichever hotel is sponsoring the conference, and then become too absorbed in academic pursuits to bother with sightseeing. Minerva thinks my traveling habits are terribly dull.”

“They sound bad.” Potter agrees. Their conversation stalls for a second and Severus is attempting to find them a reasonably neutral new topic to sink their teeth into when the boy gives him a thoughtful sideways glance, “Do you think you’d do better if you had a companion, someone to drag you out into the sunshine and insist on taking glorious pictures of you laughing yourself silly against the background of the Fountain of Trevi, or the Parthenon, or the Eiffel Tower?”

Severus can’t help but gape at the brat’s boldness, especially after Potter refused to name his mysterious Slytherin not a minute ago. The more Severus interacts with the Gryffindor, the more inclined he is to believe that Minerva may not be completely bonkers. “I’m not sure.” He answers cautiously, “I do better when I visit Draco in Berlin. He has a flat over there and stays in the city whenever the job becomes too busy for him to return home at a reasonable hour. He dragged me over there last September for a series of concerts. I have a weakness for symphony orchestras, and Draco likes to indulge me.”

“Symphony orchestras, eh?” Potter grins, clearly delighted by the little nugget of information Severus has decided to share with him. “I suppose I can see that. You have an air of elegant erudition about you.”

“Elegant erudition?” Severus repeats, flummoxed, “First you know who Michelangelo is and now you talk like you’re the one who swallowed Mrs. Granger’s infamous dictionary. I’m starting to believe you can’t be the real Harry Potter.”

“Oh, shush! I’m real all right. And I happen to know a hell of a lot about silly posh stuff, thank you very much. I hoped it’d come handy in conversation one day, so I made it my business to learn about such things.”

“Let me get this straight: you learned a lot about ‘silly posh stuff’ for the purpose of conversing. You realize that’s utterly ridiculous, right? Who the hell were you even planning to shock with your knowledge? Surely Granger already has it, and I doubt Weasley cares for that sort of thing.”

“I could’ve been planning to shock _you_ , Snape. You wouldn’t have seen it coming.” Potter replies shamelessly just as they reach Severus’s garden gate. Severus stands there, wrestling with a veritable mass of warring thoughts and feelings. He is not ready to invite Potter into his cottage, but he doesn’t want to let him go so soon. He thinks back to Potter’s refusal to name his paramour and wonders what the boy wants. What game is he playing? Is the savior interested in Severus at all, or is he simply a harmless flirt whose heart belongs to someone else? Does Potter wish Severus would invite him in for tea, or would he rather stand out here like an idiot and keep rambling until the cows come home?

“I am shocked,” Severus agrees blandly, and can’t for the life of him decide what to say next.

Potter laughs. “Have I shocked you in a good way or in a bad one, professor? I don’t know why, but I’ve never managed to impress you.”

“I don’t think you ever tried.”

“Oh, I’ve tried.” Potter disagrees instantly. “I’ve been trying for ages, in fact,” He adds with that tone of his, the one that’s soft and intense and oh-so-riveting that Severus feels it rattling his very bones. They proceed to stand there like a pair of nincompoops, staring at one another unblinkingly. Potter swallows thickly, licks his lips like a man sitting before the most marvelous feast he’s ever seen, and flaps his right hand nervously in the air. “Snape, I-

Severus panics, certain that whatever reason led the boy to refuse answering his direct question earlier has lost some of its importance during the course of their conversation. Potter is about to launch into confession, Severus can practically smell it, and he is suddenly frightened of losing their current camaraderie. He’s got nothing of substance to offer, and Potter may walk away upon hearing that truth. “Let’s not say -or do- anything hasty, Potter. I’m— not used to having to make up my mind on the spot about such things.”

“Such things?” Potter asks, looking thoroughly confused, and as disappointed as Willoughby would be if he woke up one day to find out that old Esther’s conker tree disappeared overnight.

“Things like deciding whether I’m properly impressed or not, boy.” Severus estates obliquely, hoping to high heaven that the Gryffindor will not force him to clarify his answer any further.

To Severus’s utter shock, Potter’s confused expression clears instead of becoming mulish, and the unflattering moue of utter disappointment he’d been sporting vanishes as if it never existed. “Really? You’d— Oh!”

Severus can’t help raising a thin, perplexed eyebrow. He can’t even begin to imagine why the idiot suddenly looks so cheerful. Despite his growing confusion, he is impressed with the brat’s ability to convey so much emotion with so unlikely a trio of barely linked words. Potter fidgets nervously under his gaze, but the sunny little smile breaking out across his lips is warm and pleased, hopeful. “I mean, yeah. That’s— cool. I know how slow Slytherins are to decide ‘such things.’ I can be patient, Snape. I can be as patient as hell.”

Severus feels himself blush. Potter is looking at him with a kind of dazzled hunger that’s making him feel slightly dizzy. He can’t believe the boy is managing to make him weak at the knees with a single knowing look as they stand outside his garden gate. “I can’t promise I’d find myself impressed in the end, Potter.” He feels honor-bound to explain, for he is certain now that the savior has managed to interpret his original deflection as something else entirely, and Severus doesn’t want to make any promise he can’t keep.

Potter nods in distracted agreement and remains there, staring at him in open wonder. “What’s changed? You were still running away like a panicked virgin and pushing random Slytherin girls at me in a desperate attempt to turn me straight the last time I saw you.”

“I was doing nothing of the sort!” Severus gasps.

“Really? Then what the hell were you doing?”

Severus swallows with discomfort. The boy is too direct by far. He is also making no effort to either hide or deny the truth of Minerva’s assumptions. Potter is interested in him and, despite Severus’s intimation that he requires time to think about ‘such things,’ the brat is Gryffindor enough to be clearly aiming for total transparency in regard to what ‘such things’ entail. “I was honestly attempting to aid you. I hadn’t realized that you are—er... Minerva had to tell me you’re a homosexual, Potter. I had no idea. In fact, I didn’t fully believe her until you confirmed it to my face a few minutes ago. I was under the impression that you were the quintessential straight hero.”

The Savior does a double-take. “You didn’t know? Gosh! That’s mortifying. You must have been terribly confused when I tried to put the moves on you that day, at Fortescue’s.”

“I assume you’re aware I’m-

“Yeah. I inherited the Blacks’ fortune. All their vaults and things. Regulus kept your letters inside this super posh lacquered box, you see? I’ve been meaning to give it to you for a while. But you never gave me the time of day, and I didn’t want to drop it on your doorstep or something. Memories like that ought to be treated right.”

Severus doesn’t know what to say to that. He is hovering between shock that there’s something of that nature that has survived for so long out of his grasp, gratitude that the boy is willing to hand it over to him, and utter horror that Potter has obviously read his intimate correspondence.

“Ah! no.” Potter says, swaying instinctively closer and lifting up a hand as if he’s aching to rub Severus’s arm in a soothing gesture of comfort that he forces himself not to deliver at the last possible second. “I know what you’re thinking, Snape, and it’s not true, all right? I read one or two of those letters, enough to understand what was going on between the two of you and that you have every right to claim the contents of that box, but I left the rest alone. I only know that Regulus Black was in love with you and that you returned his feelings.”

“I— Thank you, Potter. For respecting my privacy, and for offering to return Regulus’s treasure to me. I had no idea that he’d saved those letters, or that he’d kept them hidden inside his vault.”

“I think he kept more than that. There’s a fancy blue potion bottle in his vault too. It’s empty and dusty, and it doesn’t look like much at all, but I recognized your handwriting on the label.”

“Oh!” Severus gasps, suddenly faint with the achy weight that comes with so unexpectedly recalling one of his most cherished memories.

“Maybe we should visit that vault together. I bet there are plenty of things inside that rightly belong to you, and I don’t want to miss anything of importance. Regulus would have wanted you to have them.”

“I’d like that.” Severus agrees quietly, and this time, when Potter’s hand raises once more as if to settle upon him comfortingly, Severus steps forward until the boy’s calloused palm catches the side of his arm. “Please,” he whispers, staring into the most famous green eyes in Britain with a mix of growing frustration and fond amusement. “There’s no need for you to be so skittish about putting your hands on me, Potter. I may not be as touchy-feely as you are, but I do enjoy physical contact.”

The Gryffindor’s hand settles properly upon him then, rubbing gently up and down his arm, and Severus sighs with relief when Potter steps closer, “How patient do you want me to be? Are you aware of the depth of my feelings for you or should I assume you’re still wearing your I’m-An-Oblivious-Git hat?”

“I— Minerva is of the opinion that I’m your mystery Slytherin.”

“Of course you are, you, silly man,” Potter confirms, calm as you please. The smile on his lips is tender and kind, downright irresistible.

“I’m not in love with you, Potter. I barely know you.”

“And whose fault is that, eh? I’ve been batting my eyelashes and flashing my charming smile your way for ages, you, grumpy old bastard.” The boy berates him, even though there is an immense amount of gentle patience in his tone, and he keeps rubbing Severus’s arm in a gesture that offers comfort, that aims to soothe unsettled nerves. “I realize I haven’t managed to bewitch you with my loveliness yet but, jokes aside, can you imagine yourself falling for me at some point in the future, Snape? I’d gladly court you if you let me.”

“Isn’t courting a bit— old-fashioned? We could just-

“No. I don’t want to ‘just-’ anything with you, professor. I don’t want any maybes or let’s sees or any other sort of casual shite. I want truth, solid and unshakable. And I bloody well deserve it. You deserve it too.”

Severus feels his pounding heart stick to the back of his throat. How does Potter read him so well? How does this person, who Severus had so thoroughly dismissed as someone he’d never see eye to eye with, never share any dream or idea with, know the exact shape and depth of his most cherished dream? Severus wants truth, solid and unshakable, too. He wants that above everything else. Wants it with a strength that sometimes frightens him. “Fine. Do your worst and court me then. But don’t you dare go overboard. Do it subtly. Respectfully. Do it slowly, Potter. I want to be able to enjoy it. And I won’t be rushed into anything. Not before I’m ready.”

“I can do that.” Potter tries to say calmly, but he is shaking minutely from head to toes, and his face is glowing with happiness. He looks like a man whose last ten birthday wishes have unexpectedly come true at the same time. There is a dazed, wide-eyed hint of disbelief to his expression that makes the joy in it seem more real. Severus feels the weight of the open look of adoration the boy is giving him right down to his toes.

“W-we are in agreement then.” Severus stammers, flustered beyond words. “You may use my given name from now on if you so wish.”

“Oh, I wish, Severus,” Potter says fervently, leaning towards him like a frost-coated plant seeking the warmth of the sun. “You can call me Harry too. Or pet. Or sweet-cheeks. Or sunshine, sugar-lips, honey-bear... Anything that pleases you, really. I’ll answer to all of it.”

Severus laughs at the idiot’s silly antics, and the moment turns less heavy, less terrifying, and a lot less intense without losing any of its promising depth. “I’m half tempted to call you ‘bon-bon’ just to see if you’ll respond to that.”

Potter grins at him mischievously. “You say ‘bon-bon,’ and I’ll simply ask what kind? What flavor? What shape? I want to be what you want, Severus.”

“I believe you’re very close to it already,” Severus says honestly.

“So you don’t go for smarts after all. Thank Godric!” Potter sighs artlessly in relief. “You’ve got a thing for kind and thoughtful, don’t you?”

“I do,” Severus admits readily enough and shakes his head from left to right when the idiot proceeds to take a couple of steps back and performs a ridiculous triumphant little dance.

“I knew it! Ron said I didn’t have a hope in hell because Regulus was smart and cultured and gorgeous.”

“You’re smart and gorgeous too, Pot-er— Harry.”

“Am I?” The Savior asks, shocked into stillness.

Severus blushes bright red. “Stop fishing for compliments, boy. It’s unseemly.” He berates the idiot snarkily and then bites his lower lip, making no move to disguise his growing worry. He is starting to become jittery with nerves, and that’s never good news for anyone in his vicinity, let alone the actual source of his rising anxiety. “I think we should call it a day before things go South. I don’t do well when I feel out of my depth, Po— Harry. I need some time to get used to the change in our friendsh- relationsh- this _thing_ between us.”

Potter laughs, sunny and delighted and not upset at all about being so bluntly dismissed. “That’s all right, Severus. I don’t want to put my foot in it either, and I will because I’m so nervous I could barf. I doubt you’d find my throwing up on your shoes very attractive. What about meeting tomorrow to check out Regulus’s vault? We could have a bit of a pint at The Leaky afterward. I still haven’t seen you plastered.”

“And you shan’t. Not yet, at least. I don’t like to get drunk in public, and it’s too soon for us to be doing that sort of thing in my home.”

“We could do it in mine.” Potter offers instantly, cheekily, and Severus rolls his eyes in the sort of long-suffering gesture that already feels comfortably natural.

“We will do nothing of the sort for at least ten years, brat.”

“TEN YEARS!” Potter shrieks, looking satisfyingly horrified. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I might be. But I don’t know that yet. Just remember that teasing me so shamelessly could result in me teasing you back. And I’m Slytherin. And older. And a bit of a bastard.”

“Don’t worry. I like bastards as much as I like _you_ , Severus.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Get the hell out of here, Potter.” Severus grumbles when he feels himself blush anew.

The Gryffindor laughs himself silly before taking a sobering look at him and saying in the softest tone possible. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Six o’clock all right?”

“Yes. But let’s go to the bakery instead, please. I think it may be too soon for us to tackle Regulus’s ghost together.” Severus decides, and Po—er _‘Harry, damn it!’_ nods in agreement and offers him a cheerful goodbye before Apparating away. Severus is left there, staring into thin air beside his garden gate while every drop of his blood fairly gallops through his veins. He hasn’t felt so alive in years. It’s a strange but lovely feeling. One he’d forgotten about altogether due to disuse. He is looking forward to the prospect of getting used to it once again. Salazar! He’s got the hugest crush on Potter, and he’s grateful for the fact that he doesn’t have to hide it, suppress it, or otherwise feel terribly guilty about nursing the pesky attraction.

So far, he’s found peace and managed to keep his old friendships in the post-war existence he’s forged for himself. Maybe he can find the time and space for romantic affection too. Severus ponders on the matter for a second and comes to the conclusion that Harry is right. He most certainly deserves love and, even more importantly, he wants it.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26.**

It turns out that drinking tea with a former student who wants to become his friend is about a million miles away from doing the same thing with an actual friend who makes no bones about being madly in love with him. Severus has been in this bakery before, has drunk the exact same variety of tea he is currently drinking and ordered the same fruit-encrusted scones presently sitting on a plate between them. They’ve done all of this before, maybe not a hundred times yet, but definitely often enough that the experience shouldn’t feel as alien as it does.

Back in the earlier days of his romance with Regulus, Severus had been young, smitten, and inexperienced. He is none of those things now, and yet he can’t help but feel equally unpracticed this time around. Severus never truly ‘dated’ Regulus. They lived together, in a way. Shared all there was to share, from breakfast to showers, to a common room, to the student-related restrictions placed upon both, their movements and finances, that shaped everything they did as a couple. Those circumstances no longer apply, and Severus’s lack of familiarity with a situation he honestly hadn’t expected to be so different makes him feel unexpectedly wrong-footed.

Harry is positively glowing with delight across from him, babbling a mile a minute while his nervous fingertips absentmindedly tear the scone he’d served himself to shreds. It’s also patently obvious that the Auror went home after work and primped himself to within an inch of his life for their date. Severus hasn’t been able to stop staring at Harry’s formal robes since he first saw them. They look so odd on him, turning him into someone he isn’t. Severus wonders how Harry’s friends and allies feel about the fact that the boy is so ill-suited to formality. He doesn’t look like a future Minister of Magic and, now that Severus has seen what he believes is Harry’s best attempt at looking sophisticated, Severus realizes that the boy will never fit the mold they want to stuff him in. They’ll have to make a new one just for him. Harry’s strength isn’t in playing the smooth, worldly gentleman but on being the boy next door. That charming, walking disaster everyone adores just because he’s— Harry. The mere sight of the atrociously flat hairstyle the Gryffindor is currently sporting, coupled with those deeply starched robes is giving Severus heartburn. He hates Harry’s new look viscerally but has no intention of disparaging it when his companion has put so much effort into his appearance.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks suddenly, fluttering right hand reaching out to poke his in a gesture that manages to convey both increasing wariness and instinctive boldness. “You’re a million miles away from here, Severus.”

Severus takes a deep breath, weights the pros and cons of diverting the Auror’s attention with some random remark in a bid to salvage the moment, and promptly decides that course of action won’t help them achieve their mutual goal of turning their friendship into something more intimate. “I don’t like whatever it is you’ve done to your hair,” Severus says in the end, praying to Merlin that Harry won’t reward his honesty with a face full of tepid tea before he storms out in a fit of pique.

Harry’s reaction is much worse than that. His green gaze widens with hurt. His smile dims, and suddenly self-conscious fingertips rise towards his head, broadcasting blatant insecurity. Severus hates the sight of that even more so he adds in a rush: “I don’t like those stuffy robes you’re wearing either. They make you look like someone you aren’t, and I— Salazar help me, Potter, but I prefer to see you messy and horribly put together. I prefer you looking like _you._ ”

The hurt expression vanishes from Harry’s face so fast that Severus wonders if he'd hallucinated it. The brat beams at him, broad smile bright and disgustingly mushy with undisguised affection. “So you’re saying you like me the way I am. That’s— incredibly romantic, professor.”

Severus blinks, positively horrified by the sappy implication. “It is not.”

Harry has the gall to laugh at him. “Of course it is. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.” He insists, both green gaze and manly voice softening with fondness as he dares to place that audacious hand of his over Severus’s own, right there, on top of the bakery table, in full sight of about a dozen paparazzi and fifty customers, some of whom are former members of the Slytherin house.

Severus becomes instantly flustered. He can literally feel the blush climbing up his chest and neck like the most unwelcome wave of prickly heat imaginable. His pulse starts racing, and he feels that sickening butterfly fluttering explode in the pit of his stomach for the first time in ages. He remembers this awkwardness. This giddy and terrifying mix of hope and attraction, of reckless overconfidence and crippling insecurity, and he finds it as frightening now as he found it back then. “What are you doing?” He hears himself whisper, staring not up into his companion’s eyes but down towards their linked hands.

Harry doesn’t miss a beat, “I’m holding my dear friend’s hand,” he says calmly, squeezing Severus’s suddenly cold fingers reassuringly.

“I’ve never seen you hold Weasley thus.”

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t, Severus. There’s a lot of stuff you miss when you ignore someone as hard as you’ve been ignoring me.”

“That’s not it.” Severus disagrees. “You’re attempting to out this, out _us,_ with typical Gryffindor disregard for either subtlety or decorum.”

Harry doesn’t even bother to play dumb any further. “I didn’t realize we were trying to hide it.”

“What part of ‘please, go slow’ don’t you understand?” Severus sighs, pulling his hand away and instantly grabbing the delicate handle of his tea-cup, turning the gesture into one that neither Harry nor anyone else who may be looking, can possibly interpret as a rejection.

“I am going slow.” Harry protests instantly. “I haven’t made a single inappropriate comment so far. Haven’t tried to snog you blind or even hinted at how hot you look in that bottle-green shirt.”

Severus feels his throat go dry upon hearing the last two examples of Harry’s impassioned self-defense. He finds himself blinking in shock, equally intrigued and overwhelmed by those words and, when his lips open to reply, they don’t bother to consult his brain at all. “Y-you think me hot?”

Surprisingly, Harry neither laughs in his face nor tries to take advantage of the moment by engaging in sexual flirting. The Auror’s jaw drops open as he blinks in bafflement. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve managed to live this long without realizing you’re one hell of an attractive wizard, Severus.”

“Er-

“Oh. My. God!”

“I-

“No. That’s— No. Gosh! What the fuck happened? Surely you don’t believe _Regulus_ _Black_ got into your pants because he liked the sharpness of your mind.”

Severus fidgets, instantly uncomfortable. “Regulus was an oddball, Harry. He often admired the unusual.”

“That’s— unhelpful.”

Severus’s lips quirk upwards ever so slightly. “Regulus adored being unhelpful. It was part of his charm.”

“I see. Even if he had a thing for unusual things, you realize that doesn’t mean he thought you odd, right?”

“Oh, he definitely did. I was the studious, grumpy arsehole who hated his big brother’s guts. I preferred smelly potions to the more common Slytherin pursuits of Quidditch, sharing and spreading gossip or making advantageous bargains. Regulus was a self-proclaimed addict to my peculiarity.”

“Fine. But that doesn’t mean anything either. Odd things aren’t unattractive by definition, Severus.”

“Maybe not. But large noses, greasy hair, and sallow skin surely are.”

“Your hair is not greasy at all, you berk. And you have beautiful skin. It’s all pale and glow-y, like a moonbeam.” Harry says, and there’s something so playful, so daring and oh-so-mischievous in his expression as that last word leaves his lips that Severus scowls instinctively.

“Oh, no. No, Potter. Don’t you dare-

“My moonbeam,” Harry whispers softly, rudely bringing Severus’s protest to a flustered halt.

“I can’t believe you just called me that.” Severus gasps, halfway between thoroughly appalled and oddly bashful.

“Why not? I like it, and the nickname suits you perfectly, professor. You’re pale. Gorgeous. Mysterious. And you enjoy tricking others into believing that nothing they do or think can actually touch you. I’d say you’re a moonbeam alright. The hottest one I’ve ever seen.”

Severus has no idea what to say to that. He stares at the Gryffindor stupidly, mute, and so red in the face that he’s pretty confident he could brew Pepper-Up successfully using the heat coming off his cheeks. Two excruciatingly long minutes pass before Harry comes to his aid, reaching out across the table to grab his hand once more and giving it a small, reassuring squeeze.

“I won’t ever call you that again if you find it offensive, Severus,” Harry promises earnestly, and the idea of losing the only sweetheart nickname he’s ever received before his would-be lover even uses it properly for the first time makes the something small but oh-so-hopeful currently attempting to take root inside Severus’s chest shiver with immeasurable horror.

“This doesn’t feel slow, Harry.” He tries to deflect, uncertain of what he wants, but Harry refuses to play ball. The Auror’s sincere green gaze pins him to the moment, demanding the answer to a question the boy has no qualms voicing.

“You need to tell me if I’ve offended you, professor. Going slow doesn’t mean not advancing. It means making an effort to ensure we’re both on the same page. I can’t do that on my own.”

“I— No one has ever called me anything other than Snape. Or Severus.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It’s a lot to digest. You liking me. Lusting after me. Ca-calling me moonbeam.”

“Do you want me to call you Severus instead?”

“No. No. I- Everyone else uses that. It’s what all my friends call me.”

“I am your friend.” Harry points out carefully, the calloused thumb of the hand holding his own rubbing his skin soothingly. Severus looks down at their connected limbs, gives into the grounding, affectionate touch, and lets himself just feel it. He wonders if he’d really be able to go back to not having it now that he knows what it’s like. Yes, they’re friends, but they could easily become so much more. Severus is more interested in finding out the exact shape and feel of that nebulous ‘more’ than in keeping the status quo.

“And yet here we are. Out together. On a date. I thought you wanted to court me, Potter.”

Harry’s caressing thumb twitches and the boy’s entire hand grows instantly bolder, grasping his own more firmly, trying to interlock their fingers. “I do.” The Auror rasps, tone and gaze doing absolutely nothing to hide the pure, unadulterated rawness of his emotions.

“Then it’s perfectly appropriate for you call me a name that’s only yours. And mine. A name that’s only ours.”

“Oh, moonbeam-” Harry chokes out, and Severus’s insides tremble upon hearing the endearment for the very first time. Something warm and profoundly beautiful settles in his gut. In his chest. He stares unblinkingly into Harry’s tear-bright gaze, smiles a little bit bashfully, and squeezes the hand trembling within his reassuringly. _‘Yes.’_ He thinks. _‘I could_ _definitely_ _get used to this.’  
_


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27.**

Severus isn’t the smallest bit surprised when Pansy and Daphne descend upon his humble abode the very next day, bearing the requisite box of his favorite exploding bonbons and a cauldron worth of puzzled curiosity. The girls are nothing if not diligent in their self-appointed task of gathering the most reliable insight into the latest gossip regardless of whether the regular press has already caught wind of it or not. Surprisingly, The Prophet’s morning article regarding yesterday’s outing was utterly free of either insinuation or innuendo. Severus hasn’t had enough time yet to find out if that is Harry’s doing, or if the paparazzi are so used to watching the boy grab his male friends’ hands willy-nilly that it honestly hasn’t occurred to them that their hero’s actions are out of character.

The Slytherin customers who were present at the bakery are another matter entirely. They may have been ready enough to cast Harry’s grabby behavior as some sort of peculiar Gryffindor quirk, but they must have been positively scandalized to see Severus accepting the touch without making a fuss of the wand drawn variety. Severus isn’t precisely known for being touchy-feely, and Elise Egglebert, one of the most prolific rumormongers to have ever graced the Slytherin dungeons had been steadily goggling at their linked hands throughout the last hour of their outing. Severus has a pretty accurate mental picture of how fast her tongue waged as soon as she made it to a secure Floo network.

The girls, elegant as always, have the grace to allow him to make tea and arrange a few delicate nibbles on a platter for all of them to share before their interrogation begins in earnest. “Dear Elise mentioned that she saw you engage in uncharacteristically friendly behavior with Harry Potter yesterday afternoon, Severus.” Pansy, the bravest of the two, opens the conversation.

“I see Miss. Egglebert’s appetite for gossip remains healthy despite her recent engagement. Shouldn’t her head be filled with more wedding-oriented topics? Spreading rumors about her former Head of House is hardly an appropriate pursuit for a future blushing bride.”

Daphne chuckles under her breath while Pansy’s dark eyes dance with unholy glee. She positively adores verbal sparring. “Surely a Slytherin blushing bride is allowed to have more than one type of thought running through her head. Especially in this day and age. I’d even suggest that she should be encouraged to remain extra-vigilant when the rumor in question also features Harry Potter possibly pressuring a beloved mentor into unsavory hand-holding.”

Severus’s left eyebrow twitches upward. “Can hand-holding ever be unsavory, Miss. Parkinson?” He asks calmly, lifting his teacup just enough to blow softly over the hot liquid’s surface.

“I’d dare say that depends on the willingness of both parties.”

“You believe Harry Potter has it in him to coerce the likes of me?”

Pansy stares assessingly at him for a solid minute. Her gaze deep and concerned. “I believe that you have grown too used to sacrificing yourself for the ‘Greater Good,’ Sir. Maybe Potter doesn’t need to coerce you. All he has to do is mention that he prefers his friends to be as touchy-feely as that uncouth barbarian, Weasley, for you to decide that accepting all that pawing is a small price to pay to remain in his good graces.”

“I thought we’d agreed that finding a way into Potter’s inner circle would benefit all of us, Pansy.” Severus reminds her calmly.

Daphne decides to enter the conversation at that point. “Yes, we agreed. And we were right. Cultivating Potter’s friendship did open the doors of wizarding businesses to us once more. Just yesterday, Pansy here received a letter from St. Mungo’s offering her that job they’d swore up and down she wasn’t ‘qualified’ for, but-

“I’ll turn it down, Severus.” Pansy interrupts Daphne with such uncharacteristic rudeness that Severus blinks at her, stunned.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll turn St. Mungo’s bloody offer down if that means you’ll feel free to punch Potter in the face the next time he tries getting handsy with you, professor.”

“You will do nothing of the sort, young lady!” Severus growls, thoroughly incensed.

“The hell I won’t!” Pansy growls right back, “I won’t be the reason why you force yourself into fitting a mold of Potter’s making. Dumbledore may have had no qualms asking you to do that for the sake of ‘The Light,’ but he had neither respect nor love for you. I do. Every one of us does, Sir. And we’d rather go back to being social pariahs than see you become someone you are not.”

Severus’s rising frustration deflates like a punctured balloon. He looks at these two girls he’s known and cared for throughout most of their lives and feels an almost overwhelming wave of pride at the fine pair of young women they’ve become. “I’m grateful for the sentiment, my ladies. I truly am. But, in this case, your protectiveness is misplaced.”

“Severus, please, let us-

“No. I— We made a terrible mistake in our evaluation of Potter. He never fell in love with a motherly woman, Pansy. Harry Potter is gay, and he-

“Salazar!” Daphne gasps, goggling at him as if he’s suddenly turned into a bright pink toad. “Potter is in love with you. Isn’t he, Severus?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no.”

“Girls-

“This is worse than we feared. We need to contact Draco. He’ll know what to do.”

“Pansy, will you please-

“No. No, Pans. That’s a terrible idea. You know Draco will storm out of here and go rip Potter’s balls off as soon as he finds out. We should call Blaise instead.”

“Daphne, there is no need to-

“Yes, you’re right, Daph. Blaise is a much better choice. He’ll find a way of poisoning that bastard, Potter, on the quiet when he next sets foot at the club, and justice will be served in a way that can never be traced back to us.”

“Will the two of you shut the fuck up, and listen to me for a bloody minute?” Severus finally roars, shocking the girls so completely with the use of such foul language in their presence that they stop plotting and gaze at him, appalled.

“Professor!” Daphne gasps and opens her mouth to speak further only to be silenced by the frustrated glare Severus throws her way. She’s never in her entire life been on the receiving end of such look.

“I do not require my honor avenged in any way, thank you very much.”

“But-

“No.”

“You don’t have to-

“I said no, Miss Parkinson!”

“You can’t expect us to accept that sort of sacrifice in good faith, Sir. Befriending the Savior is one thing. Allowing yourself to become his plaything for our sake is way out of line.”

“It is, indeed, Pansy. Which is why I’m doing nothing of the sort. Please, have some faith in my integrity.”

“I do! But I have even more faith in your almost Hufflepuffish sacrificial tendencies, Severus. Don’t you even try to deny you’d do almost anything for us.”

“Oh, I would.” Severus agrees candidly, and his gaze becomes softer when he bends forward enough in his chair to grasp Pansy’s fisted hands in his own, cradling them gently. “I would do many things indeed to ensure you are all safe and happy, Pansy. But, in this case, I don’t have to. Harry Potter isn’t the sort of bloke who’d accept coerced affection.”

“Y-you mean you honestly want him?”

“I mean we’re already exactly where we wanted to be when we first hatched this crazy plan. It never worked, by the way. Harry knew from the beginning that improving our lot’s standing in society was the main reason why I accepted his original invitation to tea at the bakery. He used the argument himself to tip the balance in his favor.”

“That was almost Slytherin of him.” Daphne whispers, impressed.

“Yes. It was.” Severus agrees, releasing his ex-pupil’s hands and settling back against the backrest of his chair to better look them both in the eye. “We no longer need him to prop up our reputation. Our future successes in the fields opening up to us will do that. You’ll be the best thing that’s ever happened to St. Mungo’s, Pansy. And you will do that on your own. The same can be said for all the snakes that will follow. I don’t need to become Harry’s partner to ensure any of you will thrive. The first door has been opened, and that’s all you’ve ever needed.”

“And you?”

“I’m— exploring possibilities.”

“That doesn’t sound like you love him, Severus.” Pansy points out, clearly worried.

“I don’t, but I could. Harry Potter is— kind.”

“Oh!” The girls gasp in unison and Severus has to grit his teeth to resist the temptation of wriggling nervously in his chair. He wonders when, exactly, did he become so transparent to the children he helped raise and feels both strangely proud of them and incredibly vulnerable. “That’s— wonderful, Sir. Y-you certainly deserve kindness.”

“I’m glad you approve, Miss Greengrass.” Severus replies stiffly and ends up huffing when the two idiots laugh and, looking at each other before rolling their eyes in unison, have the actual gall of claiming that it’s time to change the subject for they both know how ‘testy’ he becomes whenever he gets flustered.

Severus shakes his head from left to right and allows them to do as they please. The rest of their visit follows their usual pattern of gossip-sharing, Slytherin plotting, and fond bickering. Severus learns that Greg’s security firm will open its first UK office before the end of the year, that Theo ended up caving to Blaise’s insistence that he showed up at the club on the same night young Ginevra Weasley was due to do so, and they ended up striking a conversation that lasted several hours and left young Mr. Nott starry-eyed. Astoria has been approached by Madam Malkin with an offer to become the first English business to showcase -and sell- her Haute Couture handbags. Narcissa is considering participating once again on this year’s Wizarding Green-thumb Showcase, and Flourish and Blotts have finally run out of the first edition copies of Draco’s Magical Defense books. They are all doing well, and Severus is happy. All he’s ever wanted is for their society to give his precious snakes the chance to shine and, now that it has, he is a hairbreadth away from finally proving his point, for nobody realizes the truth yet, but Severus has always known this: he’s nurtured a generation of Slytherins that is ready to take the world by storm. And none of their peers can outshine them.


	28. Chapter 28

_**Chapter 28.** _

In the following weeks, Severus is relieved to discover that Harry’s idea of courting a man looks a lot like his concept of friendship with a substantial amount of hand-holding, soulful gazing, and the occasional bold reminder of affection thrown in. Thankfully, there are no dreadful recitations of amateurish poetry. No gaudy boxes of expensive chocolates delivered by exhausted owls to his cottage or sickeningly sweet-smelling flowers shoved under his nose by an earnest Gryffindor suitor. Harry in love looks pretty much like an over-excited, touchy-feely, regular Harry, so there isn’t any discernible change in the Auror's behavior towards him except maybe a little less subtlety when it comes to the number of times the boy seeks him out during working hours.

Harry used to wait for the right opportunity to speak to Severus, catching him mostly whenever he ventured out to visit Nathaniel or if they crossed each other in the lane by coincidence. Nowadays, the brat simply ambles down the road towards Severus’s cottage and calls out to him, or sends in his Patronus to alert him that he’s outside the garden gate, and expects Severus to come out and not only greet him but also indulge him by listening to whatever inane ramblings the idiot feels like sharing at the time. Severus is reasonably certain that he’d have set any other bloke who attempted to hijack his precious time thus on fire within ten seconds of their first attempt to do so but, for some inexplicable reason, he finds Harry’s blatant attention-seeking endearing. He’s cast more stasis spells over half-brewed potions in the last three weeks than he’s done in the past two decades combined, and he hasn’t grown tired of it yet.

Another recent development is the way the Auror invariably breaks into the most irritatingly attractive blinding smile Severus has ever seen every single time their gazes connect. It’s embarrassing really, how weak at the knees Severus becomes whenever that goofy smile flashes his way. Harry is open in his delight to Severus’s presence and eager to exchange a few words with him wherever they meet regardless of whether Severus is alone or accompanied by either Nathaniel or one of his former Slytherin students.

Just the other day, the Gryffindor had spotted him as he sat with Gregory, Theodore, and Draco on one of the little terraced bistros that litter the heart of Elegant Alley and approached the group, crashing their outing without so much as a by your leave. Severus’s snakes had been understandably shocked at Harry’s boldness in approaching them, but that had been nothing compared to the amazed wonder they’d exhibited when Harry proceeded to give Theo a friendly pat on the shoulder and casually informed the poor besotted fool that ‘Ginny’ had been singing his praises lately. By the time Severus’s poor boys had recovered from the shock of being treated so amicably by the Boy Who Lived, Harry had already grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and, plonking it beside Severus’s, sat himself firmly on it, joining their gathering without raising a single protest.

Harry had shamelessly quizzed both Greg and Draco about their careers, quietly congratulating young Goyle upon learning he’s about to open his first office in London, and blatantly asking Draco what were the DMLE’s chances that he’d ever consider working for them in the near future. His open interest in Draco’s answer hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Severus’s godson has been a mass of nerves ever since.

Thinking back on the last few days as they wander aimlessly around the picturesque little lake Harry had been adamant they visit today, Severus can see a clear pattern emerging, one that worries him deeply. The Auror has been uncharacteristically pensive lately. Quieter than usual, and also sort of clingy when it comes to his regular interactions with the other Sunlit Lane neighbors. It’s becoming increasingly apparent that the brat is wrestling with the idea of accepting Robbards’ latest job offer and Severus wonders what that would look like. He sincerely hopes they won’t be saddled with bloody Wiggings if that happens because then Severus may feel tempted to hex the ridiculous idiot’s mouth shut, and that could potentially damage both their reputations at a time when they can hardly afford a scandal. Public opinion is a fickle thing indeed, and Severus fears it may turn against him once again when the paparazzi finally realize that he’s set his sights on Harry.

“Hey, what’s wrong, moonbeam? You’ve been scowling at the lake for the last five minutes straight.” Harry asks suddenly, coming to a halt beside a rather picturesque willow tree and placing a hand upon his arm to make sure he stops walking too. Severus’s stomach does that increasingly familiar flip thing it likes to do whenever Harry uses the term of endearment. Severus is becoming steadily charmed by his petname and the fact that Harry’s voice turns soft and rumbly every time he utters it doesn’t help Severus’s admittedly half-hearted efforts to remain immune to it in the slightest.

“I’m contemplating the likelihood that I’ll end up hexing Wiggins blind within a fortnight of that judgmental idiot landing the Sunlit Lane beat after you leave,” Severus confesses. After his early decision to give Harry his honesty that day in the bakery, Severus has remained steadfastly adamant on offering his thoughts as they are and, so far, Harry has never disappointed him in his willingness to deal with his sometimes blunt explanations, rather than demanding Severus softens them somehow, as Albus would have done. Severus decided weeks ago that he wants a partner. Furthermore, he decided that he wants _this_ particular partner, and he is emotionally aware enough to realize that they’ll never grow any closer unless Harry makes the effort of accepting him as he is, which -so far- the Gryffindor is most certainly doing diligently.

Despite his desire for companionship, Severus promised himself that he’d put no effort whatsoever on a relationship that’ll force him to whitewash his thoughts and instincts. He is neither soft-hearted Hufflepuff nor morally-golden Gryffindor. And he never will be. He is a Slytherin: dark-ish, impatient, ambitious, and self-serving. He also has a shockingly twisted perception of others. He's bitter, suspicious, and petty to boot. He’s got the sort of emotional baggage that any sane person would run away from as fast as possible. And he is trying his very best to find out sooner rather than later if there’s anything among that lot that Harry can’t cope with. It’ll be infinitely better for them both to learn that before things progress any further.

Harry laughs, giving every appearance of feeling both startled and relieved by the relatively mild nature of Severus’s ‘dark’ thoughts. “Maybe he needs hexing. He’ll sure learn to be more conscious of other people’s feelings if you put him through his paces. Word ‘round the office is that the man is an insufferable prat.”

Severus hums, dark gaze fixed distractedly on the swaying tall grass that surrounds them. He’s not exactly disappointed by the fact that Harry hasn’t picked up on why exactly the idea of hexing Wiggins disturbs him so, but he’s not content with it either. They’re both completely different in outlook and personality. Regulus had been much more attuned to the ins and outs of Severus’s thought process. Harry’s naivety and general optimism rub Severus the wrong way sometimes. Having faith in others unless proved wrong isn’t necessarily a bad character trait, it’s just something Severus doesn’t share, and they’ll have to find a way of adjusting to each other’s different perspectives, somehow. “Hexing an Auror sounds like a pretty good reason for the public goodwill I currently enjoy to turn sour, Harry. Today perfect strangers may be happy enough prancing around wearing the same clothes I wore to one outing or another, but that may very well change tomorrow.”

“That’s a rather gloomy outlook,” Harry says softly, callused palm rubbing up and down Severus’s arm soothingly.

“Is it? My reputation precedes me, I’m afraid. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. And I played the role twice.”

“You’re also the only one who was brave enough to become a spy for The Light. You saved countless lives for little to no recognition, and now the public knows that too. I doubt anyone would side with a confirmed arsehole like Wiggins if it came down to a spat between the two of you.”

“You forget that I’m a confirmed arsehole too. And the level of my arseholery far outweighs Wiggins’s.”

“Well. Wiggins isn’t a war hero. He doesn’t laugh upon getting ugly socks for Christmas, doesn’t have a ‘charming air’ when he wears glasses or a hope in hell of pulling off wearing jewel-colored shirts with the same aplomb as you. Your fans will find him wanting.”

Severus’s smirk isn’t amused at all. He doesn’t want to be soothed. He is making a valid point and wants Harry to take it seriously. “You think the ultimate decision will be influenced by the fit of my reading glasses or Draco’s questionable fashion choices? He doesn’t even pick the shirts he gifts me carefully anymore. He is trying to see how far he can push my patience.”

“Why are you so worried about this?” Harry asks, finally catching onto Severus’s lack of interest in brushing the topic under the carpet. “You’ve never cared about what anyone thought of you before.”

“Because without the public’s goodwill, this relationship of ours may cost you your reputation, and limit your future professional options.”

“I couldn’t care less if you’re popular or not. I’m sticking to you, either way, moonbeam.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Harry. You are young and attractive. You could easily decide to find yourself someone more suitable. Someone who knows how to play the crowds, and is more asset than disadvantage when it comes to helping you reach your full potential.”

“You think I’d leave you?” Harry gapes, appalled.

“I think someone will counsel you to at least consider it and, once you do that, you may very well come to the conclusion that it makes perfect sense.”

“Severus-

“Listen to me: I can tell you’ve been thinking about accepting Robbards’ job offer. That will put you on track to becoming the next Minister of Magic. Should I lose public support, your poor choice of partner could hinder your chances of making it to the top, every adviser worth his salt is going to tell you that.”

“Fuck the top then. I’m not accepting the new job to sit in the Minister’s chair, even if that’s where it’ll eventually lead. I’m accepting it to force some sense inside the idiotic skulls of a specific bunch of Section Department Heads within the DMLE. I already told Robbards I’m not leaving the Safe Neighborhood Program unless he commits not only to hiring Malfoy but to also give him the fucking senior position he deserves. The man is a decorated Auror in the continent for Merlin’s sake! I want him on my team.”

“And that, right there, is why _I_ want you at the top, Harry. Call me selfish if you must, but I need you there. I want to spend the rest of my days basking in the perks of the kind of society only you can create.”

“Then I’ll get there. I promise.”

“Please don’t say that.”

Harry frowns, clearly puzzled. “Why not? I thought you’d be pleased. You just said you wanted me to-

“And that’s precisely the problem. I want you to get there, and I’m Slytherin enough to try to manipulate you into doing as I please if you give me half the chance. So don’t give it to me.”

“I don’t actually see the issue.”

“Well, I do. You’re clearly not as enthusiastic as the rest of us about becoming the next Minister of Magic. You have, in fact, spent the last several years doing everything in your power to thwart the plans of those who are trying their best to put you there.”

“That’s not exactly true, moonbeam. I only stayed in the Safe Neighborhood Program because I ended up in your neighborhood. I’m not some poor innocent lamb who has weirdly fluffy dreams of patrolling Sunlit Lane for the next thirty years. I landed there by chance, fell for you so fast I couldn't tell left from right, and stayed on the beat because I’m a stalking little freak who shamelessly uses his job to keep tabs on his crush.”

“And yet you told me you’ve no interest in either joining proper active duty or landing a desk-bound job. I know exactly what being manipulated into playing a role you don’t care for feels like, Harry. I never wanted to become a professor. I was ordered to apply for the position, and then guilted into magically binding myself to it until the end of the war. I lived a life that made me deeply unhappy for twenty long years. I’ve no interest in pushing you into a similar situation.”

“You aren’t. I swear. I want our world to be different too. I put my faith in other people’s vision of the future, but they’re either too lazy or too afraid to push for real change. I’ve got all this fame I never knew what to do with and, when I used it to aid you, I realized how simple it’d be for me to nudge our society in the right direction. I want to get to the top too, Severus. I don’t want to do it only for you, or for myself. I want to do it for everyone. We’ve got to stop the cycle of hatred that’s taken hold of the Wizarding World since the war ended.”

“Then you might be better off keeping the nature of our association private and finding some sort of frontman to parade before the cameras. I’m not the ideal romantic partner for the future Minister Of Magic.”

“Fuck that. You are _my_ ideal romantic partner, and that’s all I care about,” Harry huffs, “I won’t do this on anybody’s terms but mine. And I won’t do it without you.”

Severus frowns, too caught up in finding a reasonable solution to the worst-case scenario to put much stock on Harry’s naive words. “You won’t be doing it without me. You’ll just-

“I won’t just- whatever it is you expect me to do with this hypothetical frontman of yours. I refuse to treat you like a dark, embarrassing secret. I’m dead serious, moonbeam.” Harry says firmly, staring into his eyes intently as he lifts both hands to cup Severus’s face between his palms. “We'll go as slow as you need, I promise. We'll keep our relationship private for as long as you want it to be. But I'm never going to deny it exists, and I’m not going _anywhere_ without you. Do you understand me?”

Severus’s breath hitches at the finality of the tone. He’s never been the deciding factor in anyone’s life-choices before, but here is Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, telling him he most certainly is that for him. “You are being reckless. It's too soon to voice that sort of commitment.” Severus feels compelled to share his opinion on the matter and isn’t particularly shocked when Harry shakes his head in stubborn disagreement.

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it is.”

Harry sighs, loops the lock of Severus’s hair that’s fallen across his face behind his left ear and raises up on his tiptoes to place a delicate, close-mouthed kiss on the cheek he’s just exposed. “Let’s agree to disagree then, beautiful.” He says softly, and Severus can’t think of a single word to counter that ridiculously mushy sentiment. Harry’s soft peck to his cheek leaves him speechless. And charmed. He feels hopeful, adored, and dangerously close to trusting Harry Potter with his emotionally-fragile heart.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29.**

Severus’s decision to take some time to strengthen their new relationship before accepting Harry’s invitation to visit Gringotts together proves to be a wise move. Despite his determination not to do so, once inside Regulus’s vault, Severus can’t help feeling swamped by the weight of about a thousand memories of perfectly beautiful instants belonging to a romance that never grew old. Never knew strife. Never became anything other than glorious perfection. Severus’s former lover had been kind. He’d been clever. Talented. Young. Brave— He’d been everything Severus had ever wanted, and even though Severus can no longer have him, he still misses him desperately. Still loves him in a way that’ll probably never end.

Harry wanders the relatively small vault behind him, quietly shadowing his every step and witnessing Severus’s mounting distress in respectful silence. He offers to leave him alone inside the vault, but the goblin that has accompanied them down refuses to allow Severus to stay if Harry goes. The vault belongs to Potter, and nobody else is permitted to access it unless he is physically present.

What follows is a harrowing experience for both of them. Severus points out item after item with growing stiffness while Harry calmly instructs the goblin to add it to the growing list of things waiting to be immediately transferred to Severus’s own vault. By the end of it all, Severus has stopped speaking altogether, and the boy looks pale and wary. They stand side by side on the steps of the bank, surrounded by the dusk’s purple shadows, and Severus shivers from head to toes despite the relative warmth of the early summer evening. Harry shuffles closer and doesn’t hesitate at all before rubbing both his arms comfortingly.

“Are you all right?” The brat asks softly, green gaze worried and disarmingly gentle. Severus knows he should try to change the topic, but he is tired to death of putting up a strong front. He wants to lean forward and let himself crumble in Harry’s arms, allow the boy to become his shelter in this instant where he feels so emotionally fragile.

“No. I’m not all right.” He snaps, trying to hold onto his temper even though he suspects he won’t manage it, “I’m heartbroken over that stupid, self-sacrificing idiot all over again. Why did he have to be so bloody brave? Why couldn’t he have looked the other way and learned to live with what he knew? Why did he choose to leave me, Harry?”

“I think he hoped to save you. And he did, in a way. You made it through the war, moonbeam.”

“I’m so angry with him.”

“I know,” Harry whispers, shuffling even closer and tenderly drying the tears that are collecting at the corners of Severus’s reddening eyes. “Do you want to head over to The Leaky? I remember how you feel about getting plastered in public, but maybe that’s exactly what you need. I promise to look after you.”

“Drinking will only make this mess worse. We used to do that together, Regulus and I. We pooled our resources to buy our first ever bottle of Firewhiskey. Got utterly trashed in the back of the Quidditch showers and kissed each other senseless. Our first kiss, you know? It was horrible. We had no clue what we were doing, and we were so damned drunk— It was all teeth and spit and horny desperation.”

“Oh!”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I bet the last thing you want to do right now is listen politely to intimate stories about my dead ex.”

“It’s OK, moonbeam. It’s nice to hear about it. Honest. It explains what that old bottle of Firewhiskey was doing there. That’s the one, isn’t it? The same bottle the two of you bought together?”

“I can’t believe he kept it.”

“It’s obvious that he treasured you. He loved everything the two of you did together. He hung onto every little thing.”

“Regulus was a bit of a hoarder. Merlin! His school trunk was always full of trash because he wouldn’t throw anything away, no matter how insignificant.”

“Do you have any pictures of him? There are no portraits in Grimmauld Place. I checked.”

“Strutting around like a bratty supermodel was his brother’s vice, not Regulus’s. He didn’t like to pose for anything. One. I have one picture of him, and he’s not even the subject of the bloody thing. He’s just hovering in the corner.”

“Come home with me. Please.” Harry requests softly. He’s stepped right in front of Severus now and is holding onto his arms, rubbing them gently, as he stares up into his face with obvious concern. Severus’s shock at the invitation and his instinctive inclination to decline it must show on his face because the Gryffindor steps even closer, and whispers urgently against his neck, “There will be no hanky-panky. I swear. I don’t think you should be alone tonight, all right? I’ll drop you off at Malfoy’s if you’d rather. Or at McGonagall’s.”

“I don’t need to be mollycoddled. I’ve been looking after myself for a long time.”

“I’m not claiming you can’t look after yourself, you, idiot. I’m saying you don’t have to. You’re not alone anymore. What’s more, Regulus wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone. I’m here for you if you want me to be.”

“We shouldn’t have done this so soon. We shouldn’t have done this at all.”

“No. You needed closure. And you had a right to know how much he treasured you. I confess I’m mad with jealousy right now, but I’m also grateful that he loved you right. He adored you with everything he had, moonbeam, and you deserve that.”

“I don’t want to do this here.” Severus hisses, feeling out of sorts and overwhelmed. “I don’t want to do this at all.”

Harry presses closer, so much so that the tips of their shoes brush against each other. “Come home with me then. Let me cook you dinner. We’ll talk about whatever you want, or not talk at all. We can cuddle platonically on my ancient couch. It’s yellow and has the gaudiest purple flowers you’ll ever see. I got it second-hand from a muggle store and all my friends hate it. But it’s huge and bright and comfy. And I bet I’ll make you laugh.”

“Fine.” Severus acquiesces, and instantly feels weak and out of sorts for relinquishing control. Harry doesn’t judge him for it. Doesn’t rub it in. Doesn’t make him feel anything other than cherished when he clasps their hands together and, looking right into his eyes, asks permission to Side-Apparate him. Severus nods, exhausted, and in his very next blink finds himself far away from the steps of Gringotts. Harry’s sofa is indeed yellow. And as ugly as promised. Sadly, though, it completely fails to make Severus laugh.


	30. Chapter 30

**  
Chapter 30.**

Severus wakes at dawn and stares in sleepy-eyed confusion at the unfamiliar room he’s inhabiting. It’s old-fashioned and wall-paneled; there is a massive fireplace in front of him and a low table covered in dirty plates— Harry. He is in Harry’s house. He ate a simple pasta dinner off those dishes last night and afterward allowed the boy to cradle him gently against that heroic Gryffindor chest while he wept disconsolately for the lover he lost so long ago.

Severus blinks, feeling strangely calm. He is shocked to discover that he doesn't feel ashamed by his loss of control. On the contrary, he feels rested, lighter, settled. He feels finally at peace with Regulus’s decision to sacrifice the future they could have shared together for Albus’ much-lauded Greater Good.

“Hey,” Harry greets him, breaking into his thoughts, and that’s when Severus realizes he is stretched out on the Gryffindor's ugly yellow sofa, dark head plopped on the savior’s lap and lanky body covered by a thin fleecy blanket. He stiffens instantly, but his attempt to jerk away, to straighten himself up at once and release the poor boy from the strain of his weight goes nowhere. Harry starts rubbing his closest arm as soon as Severus becomes rigid, “Hush. It’s all right. You’re all right. We fell asleep on the sofa. It’s not a big deal, moonbeam.”

“You covered me with a blanket.” Severus rasps, relaxing ever so hesitantly in response to the soothing effect of Harry’s gentle arm rub.

“So?” Harry asks, yawning like an uncouth barbarian as he does, and then begins to carefully comb through Severus’s sleep-tangled hair with his free hand.

“You could have left me here and gone to bed. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve kipped on a friend’s sofa.”

“But you’re not merely my friend, Severus. You’re the bloke I’m trying my best to impress, remember? I wouldn’t have left you alone last night for all the gold in England.”

“I— Thank you. For the food, and the cuddling. For putting up with all that crying too. Thank you for being there, Harry.”

“Don’t. Please. I don’t want your gratitude. I did all that out of selfishness. Looking after you is not a chore, moonbeam. It’s what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

“I see you can be smooth when you want to be,” Severus says dryly, “I freely confess I wasn’t expecting you to be so articulate upon waking.”

Harry laughs. “Is that your way of demanding the morning’s first cuppa? Compliments. I like it. I might make you a proper fry-up for that.”

“A fry-up?” Severus bolts upright, utterly horrified. Harry blinks at him owlishly, looking ruffled and displeased upon finding his lap suddenly professor-free. “I have a delicate stomach, boy. I’ll be unable to eat anything else all day if I consume more than a slice of toast or a small bowl of fruit with my morning tea.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to look horrified. “Really? You’re seriously telling me you’re one of those fussy chaps who eats like a hummingbird?”

“I’m not a fussy chap.” Severus huffs, but can’t release any more offended steam because Harry giggles like an idiot upon seeing the look on his face, and leans over to ruffle his hair like he’s confused Severus with a cute and disgruntled owlet.

“It’s OK to be fussy, moonbeam. It’s OK to be _you_. I even like you like this. All sleepy-eyed and fluffed up and growl-y like an annoyed cat.”

“Potter, if you don’t shut the fuck up this very second and brew me a cup of Earl Grey, I swear to Merlin you are going to regret it,” Severus says very slowly, very calmly, and with an unmistakably threatening edge.

The Savior of the Wizarding World likes to live dangerously it seems, for he laughs brightly instead of heading straight to the kitchen and, taking hold of Severus’s right hand, brings it up to his lips and kisses the knuckles gallantly. “Good morning, professor. I’ve waited a very long time to say these words.”

“G-good morning, Harry.” Severus stammers, blushing like a startled Hufflepuff.

“Do you like sugar in your tea? Lemon? Milk?”

“Black. One sugar. I could do with a slice of toast too if you don’t mind.”

“Coming right up, moonbeam. There’s a loo at the end of the corridor if you need it. Third door on the right. Come over to the kitchen when you’re done, and I’ll try to make you feel jealous of the breakfast feast I plan to cook for myself. I still haven’t met the soul who can resist the smell of bacon.”

“Yes, you have. You just haven’t realized it yet. One of these days I’ll let you try that trick with Pansy. I still haven’t met the soul who hasn’t gone vegetarian for at least a month after hearing one of her graphic descriptions of how poor piglets are murdered in cold blood to feed the voracious hunger of all greedy bacon lovers.”

“Blimey! She sounds intense.”

“You’ve got no idea,” Severus says, getting up from the sofa and heading towards the loo as the brat walks towards the kitchen.

By the time Severus joins him, there are two pans on the fire, one dealing with the aforementioned bacon and another slowly producing a colossal heap of scrambled eggs. A sturdy cup sits on the counter, releasing Bergamot-scented steam into the air and the small plate beside it sits empty but at the ready, obviously awaiting the arrival of the bread Severus can see browning in the toaster. “Need any help?” he offers after his third sip of tea. He is feeling better now. More in control of himself and his emotions, and is willing to try his hand at figuring out how they fit together in the kitchen.

“Grated cheese. I need loads and loads of it. You’ll find a block of Cheddar in the fridge and the grater inside that cupboard over there.”

Severus hums as he washes his hands and gathers the relevant supplies. “This breakfast fry-up of yours looks like a heart attack waiting to happen,” he points out upon realizing the boy is planning to add an entire can of baked beans to the rest of the mess in the pan.

“That’s what St. Mungo’s is for.” Harry shrugs. “I’m a growing boy, moonbeam. And I usually end up wolfing down a limp ham sandwich for lunch behind Mrs. Linwood’s shed. I live mostly on breakfast and dinner, and spend all day walking up and down Sunlit Lane, as you well know.”

“I’ll feed you lunch if you want.” Severus offers impulsively and becomes instantly self-conscious when the Gryffindor stops halfway through plating his food to stare at him, wide-eyed.

“Really? I thought it was too soon for me to set foot inside your cottage.”

“We’ve been involved for a couple of months now, and you put up with my thoroughly unattractive emotional breakdown last night. You fed me dinner and are offering me breakfast. You let me use you as a pillow and kissed my bloody knuckles, Potter. I’d say it’s time for you to step inside my lair.”

“I’d love to.”

“All right then. What time would you like your lunch?” He asks, sitting across Harry and picking up his slice of toast as soon as the brat dips his fork into his eggs.

“I don’t know. One-ish? Most of the kids and older residents of the neighborhood are busy napping ‘round that time.”

“One-ish it is. Anything but limp ham sandwiches is fair game, I assume?”

“Yeah. I-er- don’t like peppers. Or Blue cheese. Just saying.”

“Fair enough. I’m allergic to lemons, of all things. No other citrus fruits. Just lemons.”

“Oh! That’s good to know. Is it only when you eat them or do you have to be careful with touching them and such? I think my shampoo is lemon-scented.”

“I break out in blisters when I touch them, and I sneeze up a storm if I’m forced to inhale the scent of them for long. The Dark Lord used to pour lemon juice on my bare back when he was pissed off with me.”

“Well. He’s a pile of dust by now, so I’d say you got the last laugh there. I’ll do a sweep of lemony stuff around the place and get rid of anything that may hurt you.”

“You don’t have to do that yet. It’s early days, Harry.”

“Hey,” Harry says softly and drops his fork to curl his fingers around Severus’s free hand. Severus looks at him then, and his heart trips over itself at the blatant look of adoration in Harry’s gaze. “You know I love you, right? There’s no point in beating around that bush. I’m not going to change my mind about wanting you even if you do. Getting rid of the lemon-scented stuff already gives me hope for the future.”

Severus squeezes Harry’s fingertips gently enough to keep hold of them when the brat attempts to withdraw them. “I’m trying to be cautious. Trying to be fair to you and give you an out you can use if you need one.”

“Well, I don’t want it. I know you think I’m some sort of messed up kid, and that staying with you will ruin my chances of becoming the next minister, but— I’m rarely conflicted about my feelings, moonbeam. My heart is pretty straightforward. It’s been dazzled by Cho Chang, charmed by Ginny Weasley, and fallen madly in lust with Oliver Wood. I wanted them but didn't love them. I never felt for any of them what I feel for you, alright? I’ve never wanted to give anyone the things I can’t wait to give you.”

Severus tries to swallow past the lump lodged in the middle of his throat but isn’t particularly successful. “What sort of things?” He asks breathlessly and feels himself grow faint with emotion when The Savior Of The Wizarding World smiles at him like he’s Godric Gryffindor reincarnated and whispers in that knee-weakening tone of his:

“Everything, moonbeam. I want to give you _everything_.”

  
  
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	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31.**

Two weeks after their visit to Gringotts, Severus still finds it hard to come to terms with the undeniable fact that he _feels_ like Harry Potter’s boyfriend. There’s no other word for it, is there? They haven’t made any official announcement yet, and Severus isn’t ready for that particular step, but he suspects Harry’s friends have been told to expect it someday soon. The brat doesn’t seem to hide anything from them, and he’s made no attempt whatsoever to curve all that obnoxious glowing with happiness thing he does all the bloody time, these days.

Even Nathaniel believes Harry is madly in love because he looks ‘floaty, like a princess.’ Severus had almost choked on the cookie he’d been nibbling when he’d heard that one. He’s surprised by how perfectly they fit. They click together, like pieces of the same puzzle, and with every lunch they share, with every brush of their fingertips and every heavy look of promise, Severus finds himself more and more enchanted.

He’s swaying lazily on his backyard’s hammock, staring dreamily towards the pristine blue sky through the branches of the trees that surround him when the very man he’s thinking about rounds the corner. “I thought I’d find you here. I tried knocking, but you didn’t answer. Then I remembered you telling me yesterday that it was time to re-pot the Slorsiwss-something-or-other, so I decided to check out the patio.”

“Slorsiwsschilea Purpurea Allegratta, Harry.” Severus corrects him automatically.

“That’s the one.” The brat grins, looking for all the world as if he is the one praising Severus for remembering the name of his own plant correctly. “What are you up to, moonbeam? You look sleepy.”

“It’s the heat. It makes me drowsy, but I’m too comfortable to head back inside. Or cast a Cooling Charm. I’m in the mood to stay right here and let this lovely sunshine roast me like a chicken. Merlin knows we don’t get enough days like this in this miserably rainy island.”

“You’re roasted already. Your nose is red like a tomato.”

“Bah! I’ll dab some burn salve on it later.”

“What about lunch? Are you going to keep dangling there and let me feed you tiny bits of whatever it is you’ve prepared? Please, consider me an unashamedly eager fan of that idea.”

“Of course you are.” Severus snorts, smiling up at the boy and feeling inexplicably flirty. “What would you do if I say I’d let you?”

Harry’s breath hitches and his green eyes go wide with surprise even as his stupid-looking grin becomes positively goofy; soft and gooey like a lava cake. “I don’t know. Faint? Dance for joy? Rush inside and get the plate before you change your mind and decide to feed yourself after all?”

“Go on then. It’s a simple shrimp salad. It’ll feel nice and fresh in this heat. Don’t forget to pick up forks. I may be willing to let you feed me, but I promise to bite you if you try to do it with your fingers.”

Harry whimpers and gulps loudly before hurrying towards the kitchen, making Severus chuckle darkly. He is starting to realize that Harry has a tone fetish of his own, and he can’t help but enjoy torturing the boy every now and then. It makes him feel powerful and desirable. It makes him feel things he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“Gosh!” Harry sighs as he rushes back, salad bowl in tow. “You look so fine in there, all lazy smile, sleepy eyes, and that expectant expression. You look like a king waiting to be served.”

“So serve me then, Auror Potter. I’m starving.”

Harry giggles like a girl. Green eyes soft, and huge smile bright and happy and gentle. He dutifully dips a fork into the bowl of shrimp salad he is clutching against his chest and takes his bloody sweet time selecting the right piece to spear. When he raises the fork back out, probably the biggest shrimp in the bowl is dangling from the twines. Severus eyes the thing and lifts an eyebrow as the boy moves the fork closer.

“Come on. Open wide, you, skinny thing. It’s time to fill that empty belly of yours with something other than black tea and buttered toast. I can’t believe you don’t even put jam on your bread, moonbeam. What sort of Briton are you?”

Severus rolls his eyes in response. Too busy concentrating on chewing to bother with actual words. Harry uses the exact same fork Severus has just eaten from to feed himself a random bite of salad. Severus feels himself grow hot in the face upon realizing the boy only bothered to bring a single piece of cutlery.

“I could be nursing the flu, you know?” He complains, but the irreverent brat doesn’t seem the slightest bit concerned.

“Are you?”

“I can’t be certain,” Severus insists and feels fluttery and self-conscious when his companion licks his lips oh-so-slowly as if attempting to recapture Severus’s taste in a bid to decide for himself whether it had ‘flu-flavor’ or not. Eventually, the boy shrugs those broad shoulders of his in a thoroughly dismissive way.

“I don’t care either way, to be honest. I’d probably share your fork even if your nose was dripping with snot. The Flu is one Pepper-Up dose away from perfect health.”

“Eewww! You say the sweetest things, my dear.” Severus grouses, opening his mouth once more to allow Harry to feed him another carefully selected morsel. The idiot snorts, chomps brutishly on his own mouthful and stares at him thoughtfully.

“You are finally ready, aren’t you?” Harry asks softly, empty fork swirling distractedly inside the bowl without catching onto anything.

Severus swallows his food, frowns with increasingly familiar confusion and then glares at Harry sideways. The boy tends to converse in fits and starts that make sense only to him, and Severus finds the habit utterly frustrating. “Ready for what, precisely?”

Harry ignores the testy tone and searches for only Salazar knows what on his face. Severus can not imagine he’d find any answers there, but that has never stopped the idiot from attempting to read him so far. “I don’t know. Kissing, maybe? You are comfortable enough to be trying your hand at flirting, which I like a great deal by the way. And you’re looking at me all hungry-like. It’s nice.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that I may be looking at you ‘all hungry-like’ because I’m actually starving, and you’ve only fed me two pieces of shrimp so far?”

“Maybe I’m hoping that brilliant brain of yours is finally ready to understand that I’m a hell of a lot tastier than shrimp.” Harry points out with a mischievous grin, loading the fork once more.

“I bet you are.” Severus deadpans before his boyfriend has enough time to shut him up with a well-timed forkful of salad. They eye one another smugly and fall into companionable silence until they’ve polished off the entire bowl.

“The food’s all done, beautiful,” Harry says, setting the dirty container, along with the fork, on a nearby bench. “And you’re still eyeing me up, all hungry-like.”

“A-am I?” Severus stutters, wondering how it is possible that they’re both still alive, that neither of them has been suffocated already by the intense energy that currently thickens the very air that surrounds them.

“You most definitely are,” Harry responds. Tone gone rumbly and deep and bone-meltingly sexy. Severus feels himself tremble with nerves. He hasn’t kissed, genuinely kissed, anyone who mattered so much to him since Regulus. The back of his throat becomes sandpaper-dry, and he wouldn’t be able to utter a single word to save his life. His limbs feel heavy and achy with desire, his thought process is sluggish, but his every sense is on high alert, eagerly relaying to him the heady brightness of Harry’s gaze, the smell of his aftershave, the sound of his ragged breaths mixed with the random melee of insect life and birdsong that fills the garden.

Severus inhales shakily and bites his bottom lip when Harry’s callused palm settles upon his chest, heavy and reassuring. He suspects the boy can probably feel his heart pounding through the thin cotton of the simple t-shirt he is wearing.

Harry takes a shaky breath too. Licks his lips nervously and starts to lean forward so slowly that Severus loses patience. He needs the bloody git to kiss him stupid this very second and, the way Potter is going about it, it’ll take about a thousand years of cow-eyed foreplay before their lips so much as align.

“Merlin’s saggy bollocks, Potter, come here, you idiot,” Severus grumbles and, sneaking his long arms around the startled boy’s neck, tugs him down firmly and plants one on rather surprised and chapped lips. The contact is dry, unfamiliar, and about as un-toe-curling as a mosquito bite. Severus frowns, pulls back and stares in confusion right into the laughing green eyes of the moronic creature still in his arms.

“That’s why patience is a virtue, you, prat,” Harry whispers against his mouth, teasing and fond in equal measure. Severus huffs but swallows a snarky response as soon as Harry’s calloused hands find their way to the back of his head and, cradling it carefully, turn his face slightly to the side. Loving fingertips tangle in his hair, brush tenderly against his jaw, and then Harry’s chapped lips are back upon his, and this time they’re open and bold, demanding an entrance Severus has no intention of denying them.

Their tongues finally meet and, dear Salazar! This is the sort of thing he remembers. Severus shudders from the top of his dark head to the very tips of his toes and moans into the kiss, shocked and hungry, utterly pleased with his lot. His eyes are closed in bliss, and when his neck turns to jelly, he simply sags against the cloth of the hammock, humming encouragingly when Harry follows him down, covering his upper body like a protective blanket.

Severus’s arms tighten around the boy’s neck, greedily, demandingly. Harry chuckles into their kiss and presses against Severus’s mouth more confidently, daring tongue cleverly winding around his and making Severus feel both breathless and lightheaded. Their passionate kiss turns Severus’s touch-starved skin into a sensitive, tingling, aching, selfish thing that wants this, wants more, wants _all_ of Harry Potter’s kisses until the very end of time. Severus holds on for dear life and pours everything he has into kissing his boyfriend back until he can no longer ignore the ringing in his ears and the burning in his lungs. He is running out of air, they both are, but oh! how he wishes they could simply bypass a need as ridiculously mundane as breathing and remain thus forever, snogging each other senseless in his sun-dappled backyard.

They break apart with equal reluctance, adding their heavy panting to the garden’s natural soundtrack. Their gazes collide. They’re both heavy-lidded, both stunned, and instead of saying something absurdly mushy and grandly romantic, Harry breaks out in nervous giggles, the utter buffoon. _‘At least he sounds delighted’_ Severus muses and smiles up at the brat, combing fondly through the messy hair at the back of Harry’s neck. It’s silky-soft, and it tickles the very tips of his fingers, and that’s the only reason why Severus bursts into giggles too. The hammock shakes with their combined weight, with the weight of the happiness that’s settling upon them. Their joy may be simple in its existence, but, to them, it feels exquisite. Wondrous, even. They both have walked a very long path indeed to reach this hammock.

“That was— I don’t even know how to describe it.” Harry rambles, sagging heavily against Severus’s chest and making no move to straighten up at all.

“It was marvelous.” Severus agrees softly and smiles even more widely when the warm puff of Harry’s smug ‘humm’ caresses the side of his neck.

“I like the sound of that. My kisses are ‘marvelous.’ You said so yourself, moonbeam. I hope that means you’re suitably impressed now.”

Severus tries to laugh but finds it hard to do with half an Auror draped across his chest, so he pushes the idiot away. Harry straightens up with a groan, looking pouty and satisfyingly reluctant. “I am impressed,” Severus says, cupping the Gryffindor's jaw as the boy hovers above him. “In fact, I demand you return here the moment your shift ends, Mr. Potter. I’ve been an unmitigated moron. We could’ve been doing _that_ for weeks. We must make up for lost time.”

“Really?” Harry beams, green eyes wide and full of wonder. “You’re going to let me snog you to my heart’s content?”

“Of course not,” Severus replies contrarily, curling elegant digits around the brat’s neck and tugging him down low enough for a quick and dirty kiss before the Savior has a chance to protest. “I’m going to let you snog me to _my_ heart’s content, Potter.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32.**

Severus is the first to admit that he thoroughly miscalculated the effect that giving himself free rein to kiss Harry Potter every time he feels like it would have on him. His libido hasn’t been precisely dormant in the last two decades; Severus is no monk, and he had his fair share of sexual escapades even during the busy years he spent as both a Hogwarts’ professor and a double spy, but he certainly hasn’t felt this horny since his teenage years, and he has absolutely no compunction blaming the Auror for it.

Harry is lovely, loving, generous. He is both patient and impatient in the most disarming mix Severus has ever encountered, and the time they spend together is slowly, but surely, becoming the highlight of Severus’s day. He is smitten. Openly and wholeheartedly. And he is running out of reasons to remind himself to be cautious. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he feels young and silly. Willing to take risks with his emotions, willing to believe that the future will be bright and they’ll manage to overcome every obstacle thrown their way as long as they face it together.

Severus has been distracted all evening, quietly freaking out about his deepening attachment to the savior and only paying half of his attention to the boy’s lively conversation. They’re in Harry’s house, the Gryffindor having insisted on cooking him a meal that “will blow your socks off.” Severus is impressed indeed with the Auror’s culinary prowess, and the dessert was so rich -and so very irresistible- that he’d ended up shoving three generous-sized portions down his straining gullet and now feels full and sleepy. By the time Harry raises from the table and reaches out a hand to help him up as well, it takes Severus about two minutes to realize his boyfriend is patiently waiting for him to do something. To say something. To return to the moment at hand.

“Where are you right now, moonbeam? I get the feeling you’re about a thousand miles away.”

“Of course I’m here,” Severus protests instantly, flapping a flustered hand towards the table. “Who else do you think polished off half of that red-velvet cake?”

“Don’t do that, please. There’s something on your mind. I can tell.“

Severus sighs and allows his gaze to wander around Harry’s homey kitchen. It’s a ridiculously chaotic place what with its bright color scheme and the piles of dirty pots currently sitting haphazardly all over the worktop. Severus likes being here, even though the general messiness that seems to come along with Harry makes his wand arm twitch every twenty minutes or so. They’re such an unlikely match, the two of them, but the more time they spend together, the more Severus believes they can balance one another. Harry is a messy ‘doer’ while he, himself, is a self-disciplined ‘thinker.’ It shouldn’t sound like a recipe for success in any shape or form, but he is starting to realize it may be.

Severus tries to remember what his evenings felt like back when Harry was still persona non grata in his life. Back when he used to spend his weekday evenings in splendid solitude, valiantly attempting to bury his loneliness inside the often disappointing depths of a random book and a single glass of brandy. He’d been at peace, but he hadn’t been happy.

Severus realizes he is happy right now. He likes being here with Harry. He feels fluttery and excited and, like the mushiest Hufflepuff imaginable, has developed the disconcerting habit of looking forward to every single day. Of having _dreams_. Of laughing like some poor, deranged weirdo every time something pleases him just because he can. Severus doesn’t want to go back to his old life, and he is perfectly aware that this one doesn’t work without Harry. “It’s time we have sex,” he mutters under his breath, and only realizes his boyfriend is close enough to have heard him when the sound of the Auror’s flustered squeak reaches his ears.

‘Wha-? Why? That doesn’t have anything to do with— _wait_. You mean you want to have sex right now? As in here, in the kitchen, while the table looks like a trash heap and the counters are full of-

“Harry. Breathe.” Severus tries to sound reassuring even though he is thoroughly amused by the intent, wide-eyed look the brat is throwing his way.

“I can’t! Y-you just— You said we should have sex, moonbeam. You can’t fucking imagine how long I’ve been waiting for permission to set my grabby paws on you and, now that the moment is here, I’m not ready. Gosh! I can’t remember the last time I changed the sheets, and my bedroom is a mess. I don’t think there’s a single candle in the entire house that isn’t weirdly melted on one side and blacker than the mouth of hell on the other, a-and— _flowers_. I don’t have any flowers.”

Severus rolls his eyes and glides closer to his panicking would-be-lover. He places both hands upon the man’s shoulders and squeezes them reassuringly. “Calm the fuck down, you, insufferable Gryffindor. I’m not demanding you exchange your ridiculously romantic plans for our first night together with a quick and dirty roll on the kitchen floor, for heaven’s sake. You don’t have to flip me around, shove my pants down to my ankles and pound my arse like a beast in heat right this second, Harry. You can do it tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever we’re both in the mood. I merely realized I’m ready to take that step, that’s all.”

“I don’t have to s-shove your pants down and p-pound your arse— I can't believe you just said that with a straight face. Gosh, moonbeam, who do you take me for? Superman? In which world do you think it’s possible for me to let you walk away without jumping you after you implied you’re ready to have sex?” Harry gasps, looking positively scandalized by Severus’s apparently erroneous assumptionthat he has self-control.

“Well. Bearing in mind that you haven’t jumped me yet I’d say it’s a distinct possibility.”

“No. It isn’t. But I-I need to know why now, moonbeam. What’s so special about tonight?”

Severus sighs. He doesn’t want to have a draining conversation about _feelings_. He wants to move their evening towards some sort of playful, happy, and hopefully sexual resolution; but he doubts they’ll get there if he attempts to brush Harry off. The brat is looking at him with that serious, intent sobriety that tells Severus in no uncertain terms that there will be no hanky-panky until he’s reassured his Gryffindor's precious conscience that they are both on the same emotional page. “I was thinking I’m happy right now. Not content, as I used to be, but genuinely happy. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

“Oh! Y-you mean that?” Harry asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an over-excited puppy, and Severus smiles at him fondly.

“Of course I do.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Does this mean you’re properly impressed now?”

Severus laughs and kisses the idiot firmly on the lips. “I can’t be one hundred percent certain yet. You may be terrible in the sack, Potter, and then I’ll have to run away in despair and shack up with a mountain goat.”

“You won’t have to,” Harry promises huskily, grabbing him by the hips and pulling him so close that they end up chest to chest. “I’m a bona fide sex god, you know?”

Severus’s left eyebrow rises towards his hairline. Harry’s playful boasting makes him want to laugh and smirk evilly at the same time. He wants to tease the fool mercilessly and hug him tightly in one single motion. He wants to kiss his mouth shut, so he does, and smiles widely against Harry’s softening lips upon hearing the startled ‘oomph!’ that’s trying to escape them.

The kiss starts frisky and becomes decidedly passionate the moment Harry relaxes into it and takes control. The boy uses the hold he still has on Severus’s hips to pull him impossibly closer, then loops his greedy arms around Severus’s neck and cradles his head demandingly, turning it ever so slightly to the left in a move that angles their noses perfectly and aligns their lips so that their breathing mingles and their mouths overlap, allowing their tongues to tangle and play a dance that’s so hot and hungry that Severus can’t help but moan into the kiss. Harry’s hands tighten on the sides of his head, callused, blunt fingers digging into Severus’s scalp and pulling on his long hair with just the right amount of impatience, the right amount of dominance and need. Severus melts, opening his mouth wider and allowing the small dynamo writhing wantonly in his arms to steal his breath away.

When their mouths part ways, they stare at one another in wonder. Harry’s gaze has darkened with desire, the usual vivid green now a barely visible ring of brightness around lust-blown pupils. Severus shivers as those eyes settle upon him, ravenous and possessive, and he realizes in that instant that Harry’s seemingly incongruous warning hadn’t been a bluff at all. He’s not walking away untouched, but that’s fine. It’s wonderful, really. Severus can’t even remember the last time he felt so wanted.

“Tell me what you want,” Harry demands gruffly, eyeing Severus’sneck like a thirsty man eyes a glass of water. Severus’s head tilts sideways instinctively, exposing more skin to that avid, predatory gaze and finds himself smirking smugly when Harry jerks forwards, buries his nose in the hollow of his throat and inhales long and deeply.

“You are a bloody tease,” the Auror grumbles, nipping at his pale skin.

“It’s not teasing if I’m willing to fall flat on my back for you and let you do your worst, Potter.”

“My worst?” Harry laughs, sucking the skin at the base of his neck like a bloodthirsty vampire before leaning back enough to admire the resulting love bite with a possessive air. “Oh, no, moonbeam. You’re never getting that out of me. You’ll get my best every time. I promise.”

Severus shivers with delight. With arousal. With ever-mounting impatience. “Then shut up and get on with it already, for Merlin’s sake.”

Harry giggles and snorts and then giggles some more. “Oh. My. God. You’re one of those.”

Severus plonks his hands on Harry’s perfectly rounded arsecheeks and squeezes them meaningfully. “One of who?”

“One of those blokes who are always rushing sex.”

Severus startles upon hearing that description. He blinks dazedly and looks down at Harry, catching both his sweet smile and slightly worried expression. The smallest smidgen of disappointment swirls in the depths of the green eyes that look at him adoringly, and Severus suddenly realizes that Harry doesn’t want to be, but he is right. Severus has become the sort of man who doesn’t take his time in the bedroom. He’s become too used to the apathy of casual sex and has learned to not dwell in those emotionally unfulfilling moments for too long. “I don’t want to do that.” He offers haltingly. “Not with you.”

“Thank Godric! I’ve been dreaming about this for ages, moonbeam. I want to worship every single inch of you, thrice over, but I’m worried that’ll scare you.”

“I doubt that. I’ve had nothing but fast and dirty dark alley encounters since Regulus died, Harry. I want tenderness more than anything.”

“Then tenderness you shall receive, gorgeous,” Harry promises in that special tone of voice that makes Severus weak at the knees. Severus smiles and bends his neck low enough to muzzle against Harry’s cheek. Harry hums and turns his head just enough to plant a petal-soft kiss at the very edge of his jaw. Severus closes his dark eyes, content with their tight embrace and the simple affection so easily bestowed upon him.

Harry kisses his jaw repeatedly, holds onto his hips and shuffles backward. Severus lets himself sink into the moment. He surrenders to his senses and matches the movement of his body to Harry’s. Matches kiss for kiss, and shiver for shiver, until his eyes are glazed, his lips are swollen, and his cock is hard and pulsing with his every heartbeat, straining impatiently against his zipper.

Harry is busy peppering his neck in love bites and guiding them in a lurching fashion towards his ugly sofa. The moment the back of Severus’s legs hits the edge of the unsightly piece of furniture, Harry’s hands begin to wander, moving away from his hips in an upward arch that has them mapping most of Severus’s narrow chest in a single, worshipful sweep. Severus gasps when the nail of a pinky catches playfully on his right nipple and hears himself groan when Harry throws him a nearly irresistible flirty look and does it all over again, the fucking tease. “Sensitive. Aren’t you, moonbeam?”

“Harry, I swear to Sala-

The Gryffindor has the audacity of swallowing Severus’s growl, kissing it off his lips, off his mind, with a bold, impassioned snog. Severus bites his lower lip in retaliation and never gets enough time to worry about the potential consequences of his slightly vindictive action before Harry’s flustered groan reaches his ears. The boy launches himself forward, plastering himself from lips to belly against Severus’s chest, fingertips frantically pulling at the buttons of his shirt. Severus doesn’t have that type of obstacle, so he simply grabs the hem of Harry’s t-shirt and gives it a firm, meaningful tug. Harry detaches himself from his lips long enough to get rid of the garment and give a baleful look at the terribly wrinkled but still mostly fastened one covering Severus. “I officially hate your buttons. They’re a crime against horniness, moonbeam.”

Severus laughs, delighted, and waves his hand down his chest, unfastening the entire thing with practiced ease. “There’s a trick to it. It’s called _magic_.”

Harry is opening his mouth to retort when Severus’s shirt gapes open, exposing his thin but wiry chest to the avid green gaze that promptly forgets the rest of the world even exists. A single, trembling hand takes hold of a loosened placket, pushing it aside reverently. Severus swallows as the moment turns both heavy and light at once, gathering an intensity it shouldn’t have and the sort of passion that can settle over a man’s very bones.

“You are so beautiful.” Harry half sighs half whispers, and Severus’s dark gaze burns with overwhelmed emotion. This is what he’s been missing since Regulus died. This is what making love feels like.

“Y-you’re beautiful too.” He croaks softly, and Harry beams at him like he’s just placed the sun at his feet. They’re back to kissing in the next second, exploring lips and necks and chests in a frenzy of wandering hands and mouths. Severus’s knees give up the ghost about a minute into that and he sort of collapses onto the sofa, leaving a clearly shocked Harry blinking down at him in surprise, with his lips still puckered into a kissy moue. Severus can’t help the giggle-snort that escapes him, and Harry glares at him playfully, before bursting into giggles too.

“Come here, brat.” Severus offers as soon as he calms down, potion-tainted hand extended, palm up, in simple invitation. Harry takes the offered limb, squeezes Severus’s fingertips, and drops down to the floor, kneeling between his splayed knees, instead of joining him on the sofa. Their gazes tangle, loving green and questioning black, conveying a hundred desires without their owners uttering a single word. Harry’s boldness breaks the impasse, as always, free hand settling upon Severus’s slack-covered thigh and rubbing it up and down meaningfully. Severus rolls his eyes, lifts up his rump, and shimmies his hips enticingly.

Harry takes the hint at once, his fingertips skim upwards and pop open the small button at the waistband of Severus’s trousers. Then the brat finds his zipper and pulls it down reverently before allowing his hands to dive inside the warm folds exposed by the sagging cloth. Severus’s first encounter with the heat of Harry’s skin takes the form of a wavering line of goose-bumping sensation that his lover paints devoutly just above the elastic band of his boxers. The touch may be simple but it’s also powerful. It has the ability to make Severus tremble from head to toes. His spine turns to goo, and he sags bonelessly against the backrest of the sofa. His lips part in a silent oh! that allows his increasingly agitated breathing to escape him in little puff-puff-puffs of growing arousal, and he closes his eyes in a bid to feel that touch with his every sense. He wants to smell it, hear it, taste it. He wants to bask in it until he can recall it to perfection.

The tip of Harry’s index hooks around the soft elastic and tugs it downward playfully, exposing a bony hip. The gentle kiss that lands there a mere blink later sinks into Severus’s pores. Harry smiles against his skin upon hearing him sigh helplessly and Severus shivers, undone. He is officially in love with their lovemaking. He is seduced. Charmed. Enchanted. He is utterly and completely Harry’s.

The Auror keeps that oh-so-reverent assault upon his senses. Kissing his other hip, his belly, dipping a playful tongue into Severus’s bellybutton and fucking into it with such attention to detail, such teasing goddamned flair that, for a second or two, Severus becomes convinced that he’ll come for the brat, untouched. Harry takes mercy on him, though. Or maybe he wants an orgasm achieved through more sophisticated means than the premature ejaculation typical of a couple of horny teenagers.

Severus is still half-dressed one second and completely naked the next. They both are. Harry half raises, half lurches toward him, landing himself on the sofa and awkwardly straddling his thighs before Severus has time to help him. The skin of the Gryffindor’s rear is hot and soft and oh-so-welcome in his lap and Severus curls his arms around his wriggling boyfriend splays a possessive hand against his spine and presses him closer. Harry’s butt slides across his thighs, sweaty leg-hair dragging against his own with a painfully pleasurable friction-burn slide. Their crotches connect with a bollocks to bollocks soft bump, seeping cock-tip brushing against seeping cock-tip. Severus’s breathing hitches, heartbeat loud and heavy against his every pulse point. He presses Harry even closer, feels the boy lean his weight against his chest and literally melt in his arms. He buries his nose in Harry’s soft hair, presses a fiercely fond kiss against the crown of the Auror’s head and arches wantonly against him. Their torsos slide together, bellies heaving against one another, hips aligning into glorious, cock-rubbing perfection. There isn’t enough friction to make them come like this, just the maddening connection of contact and the breathtaking intimacy of growing hotter and harder together, of feeling each other’s pre-come seep into their pubic hair one warm and opalescent drop at a time. Harry moans and groans and twitches against him, callused palms wandering lazily up his flanks. Severus keeps them moving, keeps them frotting, keeps them breathless and aroused and half-mad with the ever-growing need of touching each other right _there_. “Not yet,” he mutters frantically under his breath, wanting their encounter to last longer, to remain thus forever, needing to drive himself crazier, to build his orgasm from the nails of his toes upwards, like the unstoppable wave of a tsunami.

Harry twitches violently against him when Severus’s hands cradle his butt and squeeze his plump arsecheeks lustfully. “OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod! Touch me. Please. Touch me. Start wanking my fucking prick right now, you, bastard,” he begs breathily against Severus’s collarbone, peppering it desperately with open-mouthed kisses. Severus’s self-control breaks. He swears under his breath even as he wriggles his right hand between their bodies taking hold of them both in a grip that’s almost painful. It’s too tight and not enough at the same time, and Severus is so far gone that he doesn’t even care about things like finesse or chaffing anymore. He ruts mindlessly against Harry, rubbing the living daylights out of their pricks with frantic, forceful little jerks of his increasingly pre-come slickened hand. He feels the boy’s orgasm imminent arrival in the tightening of the legs that bracket his, in the stiffening of the supple spine undulating wantonly under his other hand, and in the hitch, desperate and gasping, of the rhythmic puff-puff-puffs of lung-warmed air that fans his clavicle.

Harry grows taught in his arms, green eyes open and stare directly into his own with heavy-lidded adoration, kiss-swollen lips utter a single, raw-toned word: “moonbeam” before the Gryffindor’s features grow slack in pure bliss. Severus drinks in the look of him and keeps puling on their cocks, desperate now to fall, to join his lover in that cloud of pleasurable completion, and he breaks the moment he feels Harry’s warm come hitting the top of his hand. White noise fills Severus’s consciousness, all-pervading and irresistible. His ears are ringing, his eyes tightly closed, and he wouldn’t be able to move a single muscle to save his life right now.

Harry collapses against him, his body sweaty, his weight heavy and oh-so-welcome, and Severus takes stock of the simple, sated joy dancing in his heart. He feels full of warmth after sex for the first time in veritable ages. He feels content and grateful and utterly, exquisitely, at peace. He is smiling like a loon when Harry recovers enough to twitch briefly away, grabbing his wand from somewhere and casting a lazy Tergeo at their uncomfortably messy crotches.

“All right, moonbeam?” The boy asks, all soft voice, fond smile, and dreamy green eyes.

“All right,” Severus replies, knowing in his heart of hearts that he’s never meant those words so thoroughly.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33.**

Severus realizes he is in love with Harry Potter on an unremarkable Thursday evening. They had no plans to get together but, when Severus opens Draco’s ecstatic letter informing him that he’d just received a rather flattering job offer from the British DMLE, Severus’s first instinct after contacting his godson and spending a good forty-five minutes basking in the boy’s euphoria is to share the news with Harry. Severus doesn’t even think of owling first. He simply gathers a small pinch of Floo powder and throws it into the hearth, calling out his boyfriend’s address as the flames turn green. He steps out in Harry’s familiar living-room a second later, earning himself a surprised but delighted smile from the Gryffindor who is sitting cross-legged on the fireside rug, sorting out a thoroughly puzzling ragtag heap of laundry into a wire basket.

“What’s up, moonbeam?” Harry greets him, casual as you please. He is barefooted and sporting a pair of low riding sweatpants coupled with the most decrepit looking t-shirt Severus has ever seen this side of a trashcan, and the seemingly overactive libido Severus never knew he was capable of possessing, raises its insatiable little head and takes notice. His mouth waters unconsciously, and he licks his bottom lip, to Harry’s smug satisfaction. “See something you like, beautiful?” The boy flirts playfully dropping his half-finished chore in favor of batting those thick eyelashes of his in a way he knows Severus finds nearly irresistible.

“You are a shameless little flirt, Potter,” Severus grumbles, and the brat bursts out laughing and makes grabby paws at him.

“Come over here, you, git. Lemme give you a hello kiss.”

“You gave me a hello kiss this morning when you showed up at my door, and at noon when you came over for lunch, and this afternoon, when you made your last round.”

“True. But those kisses are all in the past, moonbeam, and I prefer to focus on the present.”

“Do you now?” Severus snorts, but comes forward dutifully enough and kneels carefully beside Harry, presenting his left cheek demurely for the promised kiss. “Will this do?” he teases playfully, tone gone soft and coy and as flirty as Harry’s own.

“Never.” The Auror claims with that earnest, worshipful ardor that never fails to make Severus’s heart pound just a tad harder than it should. Their lips meet with their next breath, and the touch is sweet and soft. Unhurried, like everything they do these days. Severus’s hands bury themselves greedily in the silky-soft wildness that is Harry’s mop of hair and he feels his boyfriend’s arms curl around his slender waist, cradling him closer in response. When they finally part for air they’re both smiling like a couple of lunatics, foreheads bent together while they breathe in the same air. “Everything all right?” Harry asks after a moment, gently squeezing Severus’s side in moral support.

“The DMLE contacted Draco. He’s been offered a senior position in the brand new special tactical division the Auror department is about to launch. Robbards himself signed the offer.”

Harry blinks. “Really? That was fast. There’s still a month to go before the deadline he gave me.”

“Looks like they’re not taking any chances. They want Draco’s answer by the end of next week.”

“Blimey! I should have demanded they assign a permanent Unspeakable to my team too. I never thought they’d cave on that one, though.”

“Unspeakables are a damned pain in the arse. I know a bloke down in Cornwall who could run rings around them for shits and giggles while blind drunk on Firewhiskey any day of the week. He might agree to aid you on a case here and there if I ask him very nicely.”

“How nicely are we talking about?” Harry asks suspiciously, and Severus shakes his head in silent wonder. He still finds Harry’s obvious conviction that he’s some sort of Homme Fatale rather bizarre.

“Nothing sinister. He likes playing around with Poly-juice potion. He’s the most ridiculous prankster you’ll ever meet. Hopelessly ineffective and hardly ever funny but, ultimately, harmless.”

“You went to school with him?”

“He was a friend of my mother’s. Took me in when I ran away from home after she died.”

“I didn’t know you’d run away. Or that there was anybody out there who’d— I want to meet him.”

“Patience, Harry. This is the sort of ‘relative’ who scares boyfriends away.”

“Nobody can scare me away, moonbeam,” Harry says softly, looping a loose lock of hair behind Severus’s left ear with the delicate devotion he seems incapable of hiding. “This man looked after you when nobody else did. I think I love him already.”

Severus fidgets in his arms, dark gaze searching the room for inspiration on a safe topic to divert the conversation, and alighting on the mismatched piles of clothing that surround them. “Are you planning on donating all this stuff? Millicent Bulstrode runs a charity that looks after homeless squibs. Maybe she’ll find something worth keeping in this unsightly heap.”

“I’m afraid I’m not giving this lot away. But I’ll let all my mates know that they should pass their old stuff to Bulstrode if they’re thinking of getting rid of it.”

Severus frowns, and eyes the clothing stuffed inside the wire basket more closely. “But all these things are damaged, Harry. There’s a hole the size of my fist on that blue robe.”

This time it’s Harry’s turn to fidget. He looks down at the robe in question. Picks it up with infinite care and rubs the ragged edges of the awful hole that mars the cloth with a soft smile on his lips. “Kreacher thinks me a clumsy oaf. He’s— I sent him to work at Hogwarts after the war. He was bored stiff with me. I’m self-reliant and low key, so there was nothing for him to do around here. He is much happier over there.”

Severus looks from Harry’s fond smile to the torn robe in his hands, equal parts puzzled and curious. “I sense a ‘but’ coming up.”

Harry laughs. “He is the last house-elf of the House of Black. He grumbles if there’s nothing he can do to serve the last heir. He is too old for most household-chores, and I can’t stomach his old-fashioned cooking, but he likes mending stuff. It relaxes him.”

“So you collect old rags and send them to him?”

“Nah. H-he can tell if the stuff isn’t mine. House-elf magic is sort of possessive, you know? I’ve convinced him that I’m the messiest eater who ever lived, and also the clumsiest Auror to walk on two feet, so every three weeks or so he expects about a basketful of stuff to mend and remove food stains from. I sort of artfully stage a rip here and there, drop a dollop of sauce on a shirt and some wine on a bunch of slacks, cut a hole over the toes of my favorite socks and send them over.”

Severus blinks, gobsmacked. “Let me get this straight: you make a mess of your own clothes so your ancient house-elf can get his jollies off mending them.”

“Pretty much. It keeps Kreacher happy, and making the mess is sort of fun. Wanna help?”

“I— yes. I definitely want to help.”

“You can’t do it with magic, though. He’ll notice that. I use some muggle scissors and that rusty nail over there. The serrated knife to your right works wonders too. And there’s a bunch of messy foodstuffs in those bowls for the staining bit. Be careful with your own clothes, though.”

Severus gazes around the rug they’re sitting on with growing wonder, finding each and every item Harry points out. He picks up a pristine white shirt, stares down at its perfection and finds himself drowning in fondness at the thought that Harry is willing to taint such beautiful garment for the sake of that old, wrinkly little shit. Regulus used to love that grumpy elf too, but Severus has never seen the appeal. He picks a slice of beetroot from one of the bowls, drops it carefully upon the shirt’s chest area and lifts his gaze back up tentatively, seeking Harry’s opinion. The Auror smiles at him brightly and pokes a hole through a black sock with a long and rusty nail. They admire their handiwork, place it haphazardly in the wire basket and reach out for something else.

Severus picks garment after garment, growing bolder and more inventive with every attempt. Harry sits next to him, humming rather terribly under his breath, and somewhere between the first and second hour of their self-appointed task of destruction, Severus lifts his head and his breath hitches in sudden, undeniable, understanding. Harry’s kindness was always going to be his downfall, and there’s no better test for kindness than witnessing the things a man does not for his superiors or even his peers, but for those he has absolute power over. Kreacher is a lucky house-elf indeed.

Severus stares at the boy’s distracted profile, drinks in the barefooted, humming, messy-haired sight of him and realizes that the something warm and gentle that’s oh-so-delicately fluttering in the pit of his stomach is not friendship or fondness or even increasingly passionate lust. It’s love. He is in love. He is truly, madly, deeply in love with Harry Potter.

The boy catches him staring and looks at him curiously, all soft smile, flirty green eyes, and gentleness personified. “All right there, moonbeam?” he asks quietly, and Severus smiles in reply, nodding in silent reassurance. He is tempted to move closer and kiss the living daylights out of Harry. Tempted to whisper his new realization in the boy’s attentive ear, but he is a careful man who enjoys holding tightly onto his secrets, so he cradles his new truth close to his heart and lets it settle, like a warm blanket, over his senses. Over his bones. Over everything he is and everything he hopes to become.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34.**

Despite Severus’s fears to the contrary, his rather sudden realization that he is madly in love with Harry hasn’t turned him into a miserable bastard yet. He doesn’t feel particularly inclined to push the boy away or behave badly in his presence, so Harry is forced to acknowledge that Severus is a terrible human being and rescind his offer of affection. Severus often self-sabotages; uses unconscious tricks to ensure that he’ll never again have to endure the unbearable heartbreak he experienced when Regulus disappeared. He is obviously growing bolder when it comes to romance. Or perhaps he has more trust in Harry than he ever did in any of the potential long-time lovers he’d walked away from in the last twenty years. There are less than a handful of those. Severus has never been particularly popular.

Severus is carefully contemplating the frankly terrifying notion of confessing his feelings to the boy for about the fiftieth time this morning, when his Floo connection chimes insistently, letting him know the incoming call originates from a fireplace that is not on his authorized list of contacts. Severus frowns. Hardly anyone who is not already on that list ever bothers trying to contact him thus. Owl post is the preferred method of formal correspondence between wizards for a reason.

Closing the reference book he hasn’t managed to pay attention to since he first picked it up, Severus exits his office and walks towards the living room. Once there, he kneels carefully on his fireside rug and, wand at the ready, allows the one-way screening feature he spelled into his connection to open up enough for him to identify his caller. He is utterly shocked to discover that it’s none other than the Minister of Magic, which makes him clumsy in his casting as he accepts the call. Severus hasn’t spoken to Kingsley Shacklebolt in years. Even though they’d both belonged to the Order Of The Phoenix, Severus never warmed to the man, and he’s always assumed the feeling is mutual.

Severus’s shock translates into a thunderous scowl as he stares at Shacklebolt with the sort of confusion that usually makes him behave in that extra-snappy, impossible bastard way that never fails to irk everyone who interacts with him on a regular basis. “What the hell do you want?” Severus barks coldly, and his dark eyes narrow suspiciously when the other man proceeds to sigh like a long-suffering elder brother and mutters under his breath:

“Yep. Calling Severus Snape out of the blue was definitely shortsighted of you, Kingsley. You should have owled the cantankerous git first.”

“Are you seriously talking to yourself? In Public? Now I’m more horrified than ever by the idea that you’re our esteemed Minister, Shacklebolt.” Severus snarks, raising to his feet and walking towards his fireside chair. He doubts he’ll feel inclined to provide whatever aid the politician seeks from him after having witnessed the systematic ostracism his policies have forced Severus’s precious ex-students to endure, so he might as well sit comfortably for the harrowing conversation that awaits him.

Shacklebolt sighs loudly and rubs a hand through his face in open exasperation. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Good morning to you, Snape. May I be so bold as to request permission to enter your residence?”

Severus’s back becomes metal-pole rigid in response to that unexpected request. “Why would you demand such a thing?”

“Because I wish to talk to you?”

“We are already talking, Shacklebolt.”

“I’d rather we do it in private.”

“My Floo connection is as private as they come. I assure you.”

The Minister of Magic rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Merlin! I’ve forgotten how damned difficult you are, Snape. My office’s connection isn’t as private as yours. I’m a public figure, and these are my working hours. Anyone could walk into my office during our conversation and overhear it. I’d rather that doesn’t happen if it’s the same to you.”

Severus considers the man’s words for about half a minute before deciding that no, he will not welcome his war-time ally into his home. “I’m aware of the private conference rooms that line the third floor of the Ministry building, Shacklebolt. I will be amenable to meet you in one of them at your convenience. Or we could both Floo to Hogwarts. I doubt Minerva will begrudge us the use of her office for this rather secretive conversation you wish to have.”

“I was hoping to keep our meeting under wraps if you get what I mean,” Shacklebolt explains tightly, and every single one of Severus’s overdeveloped survival instincts twitches with alarm.

“I’m afraid my days of willingly attending clandestine meetings with politically powerful men are over, Minister.”

“I see. You’d refuse to meet with me even though I intend to return the broken pieces of your former wand to you?”

“And what, precisely, is that wand doing in your possession? Last I heard, it was part of an open investigation.”

“Gawain just closed the case. I offered to return your property to you since I have a proposition for you, Snape. There’s nothing untoward going on.”

“You. Have. A. Proposition. For. Me.” Severus enunciates those astonishing six words with cautious blandness. “Forgive me, but I find the very notion absurd.”

Shacklebolt rubs his face in utter exasperation once more. “Well, it isn’t. Or at least it shouldn’t sound as ludicrous as the fact that you dueled a flock of Trooping Fairies on your own and lived to tell the tale.”

Severus stiffens further. “Are you calling me a liar? Your precious Aurors extracted the memory of the attack while I was unconscious. I couldn’t have possibly tampered with it if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Nobody is implying anything, Snape. I’m just saying it’s a remarkable feat, that’s all. I’ve seen the memory first hand. It was shared with a select number of Senior Aurors and other high ranking officials within the Ministry. The general consensus is that you’re a very gifted duelist, and we’d like to offer you a docent position within the Auror and Unspeakable training programs. The level of dueling mastery you displayed in that memory is rare to find these days. We can not afford to lose it altogether. Current Aurors are hopelessly under-trained in Offensive Warfare Casting, and-

“Let me get this straight,” Severus interrupts him with typical rudeness, “You’re attempting to convince me to go back to teaching.”

“The salary is excellent, Snape. The facilities are state of the art and the-

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Shacklebolt splutters incredulously, turning slightly purple around the ears. It becomes immediately apparent to Severus that nobody has bothered to say no to his fellow Order member since the man became the minister.

“I said no, Shacklebolt. It’s a single syllable word. Not hard to understand at all.”

The heavy silence that follows feels colder than the Hogwarts’ dungeons in mid-winter. “May I ask why not?” Shacklebolt inquires stiffly, and Severus’s left eyebrow raises obnoxiously high.

“You may,” He replies equally frigidly and becomes honestly incapable of forcing himself to act like the better man he isn’t. Failing to take advantage of the positively delicious opening to irritate him further that this pompous arse has just handed him on a silver platter literally goes against Severus’s nature. He is well aware that he is a petty bastard, but that doesn’t make him any less inclined to give into his childish side when he is honestly convinced his opponent deserves it. Severus crosses one long leg atop the other and stares expectantly at his fireplace, uttering not a single word as his caller grows increasingly agitated on the other side of the flames.

“Well? Are you planning on answering me this side of the century, Snape?” Shacklebolt cracks within the first couple of minutes and Severus has to bite the inside of his bottom lip to avoid rolling his eyes with disappointment. Gryffindors! He can’t even fathom how such trigger-happy lot ever manages to make effective bargains.

“I have no obligation to do so, minister. Your ability to ask a question doesn’t automatically grant you the answer.”

“Oh. My. God! I hate you so much right now. Would it really kill you to be helpful?”

“And why the fuck should I?” Severus snaps. “The Ministry has never been ‘helpful’ to me.”

Shacklebolt rears back, apparently left speechless by his bitter accusation. Severus doesn’t really care what this pathetic excuse for a ‘just and progressive’ leader thinks of him. He is not dancing to whatever civil tune the man is aiming for when virtually every Slytherin out there has been on the receiving end of the post-war systematic discrimination this arsehole has failed to both denounce and resolve since he took office.

“I-I’m awfully sorry about that.”

“And I’m not interested in your apology. I don’t give a shit about your insincere feelings regarding the suffering of the hundreds of war-traumatized _children_ whose future your bigoted administration has done its best to crush.”

“Oh, for the love of— Listen to me, Snape, we may not like one another, but we want the exact same thing. You want social justice for your precious Slytherins? I want that too. I want that for everyone.”

“But?”

“But I can’t get it done without Harry, and Harry— well. He is not precisely keen on becoming my successor. There’s a whole process to filling my shoes, you know? A-and— fuck! I can’t believe how badly this conversation is going.”

Severus frowns, dark gaze riveted to the suddenly pale features of the man currently looking at him with pleading desperation. Severus is beginning to suspect he is about to receive ‘the shovel talk’ from the current embodiment of the upper bloody echelons of the Ministry of Magic. “What is this call really about?” he demands, fingertips curled so tightly around his wand that his knuckles turn bright white.

Shacklebolt takes a deep breath and becomes gray with nerves as he visibly forces himself to reply: “Rumor has it that Harry Potter is in love with you.”

“Rumor also has it that I’m half-man, half-bat, Shacklebolt,” Severus replies dryly.

The minister chokes on thin air, apparently too shocked to hide his incredulous snort and making a bad job of covering it up. “That’s-er- not the same thing at all, Snape. We have reason to believe this particular rumor may be true.”

“ _We_?”

“The Ministry in general, and the team working to ensure Harry makes it into office in particular. Our public relations team just spent the last two days burying a story that aims to out the two of you as an established couple.”

Severus stiffens from head to toes. “I see.”

“I don’t think you do. Harry is— he doesn’t love lightly.”

“Meaning what, precisely?”

“Meaning that I want to know what your intentions toward him are.”

“And how is that any of your business?” Severus growls.

“It’s my business because I’m his ultimate superior, and the man he’ll eventually replace. You have no right to shoulder your way into his life and ruin everything we’ve been trying to achieve for the sake of your own shortsighted goal.”

“And what, pray tell, is my goal?”

“The rehabilitation of your tainted reputation and, by association, the reputations of your former students.”

“Then why the hell am I still here, Shacklebolt? Wouldn’t you agree that I’ve already achieved my so-called goal?”

“Maybe you’ve gotten greedy. You’re Slytherin, Snape. Avarice goes with the territory.”

“And you’re a Gryffindor. Chronic stupidity runs rampant in your house.”

Shacklebolt shoots him such murderous glare that Severus’s wand arm twitches. He’ll hex the bastard six ways to Sunday if he so much as blinks at him the wrong way. Surprisingly, the minister lets the argument go, taking a deep breath and rubbing the bridge of his nose warily for about three minutes straight before seeking Severus’s gaze again. “What, exactly, are you saying? I need a clear answer, Snape.”

“Nothing. This is not a discussion I’m willing to have with you.” Severus explains flatly. “You’re taking liberties with regards to Potter’s private life that aren’t yours to take.”

“If it is true that Harry has fallen for you, he is not going to give you up. Surely you realize what’s at stake here.”

Severus can’t help but laugh, a strange mix of amusement and humiliation replacing his earlier anger. “Is that what the offer to become a teacher for the DMLE was about? You’re trying to bribe me away? I seem to recall the Auror Academy is somewhere near Newcastle.”

“The shit is about to hit the fan. It’s time for you to get out if you’re not playing for keeps. Denying the rumors of a romance between the two of you will be a piece of cake if you agree to play the game.”

“I’m not playing any games, yours or anybody else’s.”

The minister blinks at him, speechless. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“A-are you seriously telling me you plan to stick around?”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“For fuck’s sake, Snape, be sensible! What on Earth do you think you’ll get out of this, eh? That boy won’t settle for a short romance and an amicable break-up a few months down the line. You’ll have to bloody marry him, you, idiot!”

Severus sighs, idly wondering how it is possible to be so damned patronizing without choking to death on that humongous amount of hypocritical moral superiority. “I’m getting sick and tired of this conversation. Hand over the pieces of my former wand and get the fuck out of my fireplace, Shacklebolt.”

“Well, I’ve never-

“Now, if you please.”

“Fine!” The minister huffs and, extending his be-ringed hand past the flames, drops two very familiar pieces of wood on the hearthrug. Severus stares at them intently, swallows past the lump of grief and anger currently forming in the middle of his throat, and holds onto the base of his new wand for dear life. Whatever it takes, he won’t make the next move. He won’t betray his emotions. He won’t give a single inch.

“Think about what you’re doing very carefully, my friend.” Shacklebolt says in the end, “You’re about to become someone you may not want to be. Whoever Harry Potter falls in love with will face a great deal of public scrutiny. I’ve heard you aren't coping very well with your recent fame. How do you plan to cope with his?”

Severus looks Shacklebolt straight in the eye and offers him his best I’m-a-bastard smirk. “I am not your friend,” he says simply, and the other man has the decency to look chastised.

“I suppose I deserved that, but— I- I’m not your enemy, either, Snape. None of us are.” Shacklebolt explains quietly before taking a deep breath and continuing in a rush, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re such a bad match for Harry. You’re an experienced, cool-headed warrior. And you don’t know how to surrender. You’ll be more asset than disadvantage to him if you stick around.”

“Get your nose out of my business, minister.”

“Fine!” The man huffs and is already retreating when Severus decides it’d be wise to offer him a smidgen of an olive branch. They both want the same things, after all.

“Let me give you some advice before you leave, Shacklebolt: stop trying to herd Potter. That brat is never going to go where you want him to, anyway. If you insist on training a follower, you’ll never produce a leader.”

“That’s— surprisingly wise.”

Severus snorts but doesn’t respond further, and Shacklebolt stares at him in astonishment for a bit longer before ending the call. Severus remains sitting there, staring blindly at the broken pieces of his former wand while trying to figure out how long does he really have before his life, as he knows it, changes irrevocably. Shockingly, he is not overly concerned about the future. Albus used to say that choosing to fall in love is a bit like deciding to bathe in sunshine: a magical endeavor that can’t get off the ground unless you have faith in the outcome. Severus has never in his life been the bathing in sunshine sort, but he is willing to try it, just this once. He is going to stop dilly-dallying already and confess his feelings to Harry. He is going to give himself permission to become the crazy little moonbeam who dares to bathe in sunlight. Minerva is going to be so damned proud of him. Of that, at least, he is certain.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35.**

Harry’s reaction to the news that the Ministry has been actively interfering in their affairs isn’t as outraged as Severus expects it to be. “I suppose that clears that up, then. I’ve been wondering about The Prophet’s sudden lack of interest in printing insinuating articles about my love-life. I assumed they were scared of running afoul of your temper since you’re the only person outside my usual circle of friends I’ve shown any interest in these last few months,” he shrugs.

“I doubt Shacklebolt will bother running interference the next time someone tells him that a draft of one of those suggestive stories is making the editorial rounds.”

“Want me to put a pin on it when that happens?” Harry asks quietly, and Severus can not tell whether the boy wants to go down that road or not.

“I know you’ve been toying with the idea of making some sort of announcement, boldly taking my hand and such whenever we’re out together, Harry, but flirting with scandal is not the same thing as facing it. Do you _want_ our relationship to become public knowledge at this point?” Severus asks point-blank, trying to gauge the Gryffindor’s position on the matter. Harry is more famous than Severus will ever be. He is also aware of Severus’s concerns about how the general population will react to the news of their romantic relationship. Harry is fearless and stubbornly loyal, but it is undeniable that their coming out as a couple will impact his life, his future, far more than it’ll impact Severus’s.

“What happens if I say I do?” Harry asks with uncharacteristic caution.

Severus takes a deep breath and stares down at the delicate buds of the tropical vine he is attempting to prune with a thoughtful expression. “You’re starting an entire DMLE new division. Maybe you should make the conscious decision to concentrate all your energy on setting that up instead of muddying the waters with this. Besides, nobody even knows you’re gay,” he points out quietly, dropping his gardening shears on the patio table in favor of walking agitatedly around the brightly colored flowerpots that litter the cramped space.

“Of course they know.” Harry says quietly, walking towards him and grabbing hold of his wrist to establish a physical connection between them.

“The Weasley’s and that insufferable gaggle of Gryffindors you surround yourself with don’t count. They’d support you even if you were into cavorting with Thestrals, Dragons and Blast-Ended Skrewts at the same bloody time. That’s what family and friends do.”

“Ewww! I sincerely hope that’s your vivid imagination talking, moonbeam, because if you’re into that sort of thing for real, then you’re probably disappointed by my mostly vanilla moves.”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation here.”

“Fine! First off, let’s leave the new division out of this, all right? Despite your obvious opinion to the contrary, I’m familiar with the concept of multitasking. And second, I may not be ‘officially’ out, but I’m not precisely closeted. I just never saw the point of advertising my sexual preferences when the object of my affections wasn’t giving me the time of day.”

“The object of your affections has been snogging you stupid for ages now, Potter. He has accompanied you to every nook and cranny of Diagon Alley and half of Hogsmeade’s too. He has drunk coffee and eaten lunch, dinner, and even fucking ice-cream with you all over the place to the delight of every journalist in the country. Moreover, he has fallen flat on his back and opened his legs for you with undeniable regularity in the last few weeks, so don’t you dare give me the excuse that you’ve had no inkling whatsoever that it may be the right time to come out in earnest.” Severus huffs.

“I haven’t done it out of respect for you, you git,” Harry huffs back, “The moment I announce I’m gay everyone and their mad uncle is going to zero in on you. We’ve been inseparable for months. It’ll be pretty obvious that I’m coming out now because I’ve found myself a bloke, and it’ll take about three seconds for anyone who paid close attention to my recent movements to arrive at the conclusion that the bloke in question is you. The paparazzi will have a lot more access to you this time around because the rule that forbids them from approaching my workplace while I’m on duty won’t apply to Sunlit Lane for much longer, and whoever they send to replace me won’t be able to legally deter them from setting camp outside your cottage.”

“So what?” Severus challenges, purposely obtuse.

“So I don’t want to put that sort of pressure on you until you tell me you’re ready to shoulder it. I’d rather be your dirty secret than your former lover, moonbeam.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! I love you, you idiot. We wouldn’t be having this particular conversation otherwise. I’m not in the habit of walking away from the people I care about, Harry.”

“W-what did you just say?” Harry stutters gruffly, green eyes wide and bright and looking oh-so-elated.

“I said that I love you. And that I’m here to stay. So you may just as well go ahead and let the whole world know you’re a bloody poof.”

“R-really? You’ll let me out us as a couple?” Harry asks, looking positively delighted.

“Why not? We _are_ a couple.”

“Oh, moonbeam-

Severus laughs, and kisses the brat firmly on the lips, shaking off the trembling hand still holding onto his wrist to curl both arms around his boyfriend’s waist. Harry sighs, “I love you too,” he whispers tenderly, pushing himself up on tiptoes to plant a soft, reverent kiss at the base of Severus’s neck. Severus closes his dark eyes to better enjoy the sweetness of the moment and feels himself breathe easily for the first time since their conversation started. Sighing contentedly, he tilts his head a bit sideways and plonks his bony chin on the crown of Harry’s head.

“We are going to be all right.” Harry predicts, confident as always, but Severus doesn’t feel the need to roll his eyes until he hears the even more naive statement that follows, “Most people adore you already. All we need to do is share a couple of pictures of us looking cute and madly in love, and no one will bother to argue that we don’t belong together. It’s going to be as easy as pie.”

“No, it won’t. It’s going to be an uphill battle that will either drag my name through the mud again and push me to the very edge of patience, or have me climbing up the walls at the adulation of the press and the absurd lengths your crazy fans will go to show their willingness to support you. Whichever it is, I’m going to hate about ninety-eight percent of the nonsense coming my way. But we’ll make it, and that’s all I care about.”

“You are such a pessimist. How can you possibly be damned if they hate you, and equally damned if they don’t?” Harry laughs, grabbing him gently by the hips and pulling him close enough that they end up chest to chest. “I’ll have you know that I plan to listen patiently to every complaint you care to voice about ‘all the nonsense,’ and make it up to you thrice over. I’m not giving you the chance to hate even an eighth of our getting together, moonbeam.”

“We are already together, you idiot.”

“Are we? I think I need to be one hundred percent sure. We’re dealing with the press here, it’s in our best interests to double and even triple-check our facts.” Harry teases him in that special tone of voice that makes Severus weak at the knees. Severus smiles and bends his neck low enough to muzzle against Harry’s cheek.

“I see. Are you’re trying to get into my pants again, Potter?”

“Always, my love.” Harry agrees cheekily, turning his head just enough to plant a petal-soft kiss at the very edge of his jaw. Severus closes his eyes once more, content enough, for now, to remain in his boyfriend’s arms as they start swaying dreamily to a tune Severus can’t hear, a tune that Harry’s body is silently dancing to and encouraging Severus’s own to follow. They remain there, entwined and half-dancing in Severus’s small patio, as the sun sets behind the hedge and the first stars of the evening begin to appear in the darkening sky. Severus can’t remember ever feeling so at peace or so beloved. He likes this feeling, this— happiness. He doesn’t want to lose it, so he won’t. He is going to stay right here, in the circle of Harry Potter’s arms, for the rest of his life. Come hell or high water.

**The End.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chasing Moonbeams is now officially complete. Thanks to everyone who has read, left kudos and commented on this story. I had a wonderful time sharing my work with every one of you. Your kindness, encouragement, and enthusiasm to see these two reach their happy ending made the year plus I spent working on this fic completely worth it. :)


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